


'Til You've Fallen From Grace

by osunism



Series: The Warmth of Your Doorway [9]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Original Black Female Character - Freeform, Rescue Missions, Revenge, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8777530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: Samson has blood on his hands, not all of it his, and a great deal of it belonging to the wounded, not the dead. The price of failure is high, and Samson is drowning in debt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, it occurred to me in all of my writings that I never addressed the issue regarding Hadiza's phylactery or what became of it in the chaos of her story. Being fanfic, it was easy to handwave it as an easy oversight of Hadiza herself given that from the time she fled the Circle to her rise to power as the Inquisitor, the location of phylactery and the safety of it was the least of her concerns. And so...I had an idea that someone thought to look for it, and so now we have this fic.
> 
>  **Be Advised:** As this story takes place after _Post Tenebras Lux_ and somewhere within the timeline of _Maledictus_ , it is recommended that you read those stories first to get a better background to the characters in this.

Spring came late to Hercinia. The winter storms blowing up from the Ferelden coast had battered the small town, leaving the damp chill of winter to linger. They were doused in a nigh unerring deluge of rain, day in and day out, and it boded ill for the outlying farms, and ultimately, for their garden. Okra, elfroot, crystal grace, prophet’s laurel, and other drooped miserably toward the mud as the rain filled their blossoms, and beat against the thick flesh of their leaves. Hadiza stood by the window, frowning at her drowning garden as the continued barrage drowned the world around them. The chill of winter crept as far as her threshold, beaten back by her wards, and from the fire roaring in the fireplace of the common room that warmed the entire house.

Samson came in with a curse, and Hadiza frowned harder, knowing he was tracking mud and Maker knew what else into the foyer, shaking out the oiled hide of his coat. His boots thumped ominously down the hall, and despite her annoyance, Hadiza felt a thrill of excitement at having him home again. His shadow darkened the doorway, and she looked up, smiling as Samson stood, bedraggled and dripping all over the floor, looking as if he was ready to fight the very sky for the foul weather that besieged them.

“Any luck in the market, love?” She asked him, and saw him visibly relax, watched him breathe deep to calm himself, even if the sour look on his face refused to move.

“Bah,” he spat contemptuously, “if you call this lousy haul luck. Not much to be had in town with this Maker-cursed weather we’ve been having all winter. You’d think those sodding dog-lords would keep their fucking weather to themselves.”

Hadiza watched him grouse and pace, taking off his sodden clothing to pile on the floor, his muddy boots, and soon he sat on the bed, stripped down nearly to the skin as he slicked back his soaked hair with a muttered swear.

“I suppose it was too much to hope...” Hadiza said gently, rubbing idly at the stump of her left elbow. The winter always left the wound sore and aching, overlain with an itch too deep for her to reach. Even now, the feel of twisted and mangled flesh unnerved her.

“But, we’ve enough to get by until the rains let up.” She said brightly, sitting next to him and nudging him gently with her shoulder. Samson seemed determined to remain in a foul mood, and yet, at Hadiza’s persistent nudging, and her indulgent and open smile, he finally grumbled in assent and put his arm around her.

“Aye,” he agreed, “we do. Would be nice if we could have some of those damned yams you’re so fond of. Getting pretty damned tired of millet for breakfast.”

Hadiza snorted. “I’d think you of all people would be thankful to have food at all.”

Samson frowned. “Never said I wasn’t thankful. I’ve a full belly everyday, and I’m thankful for that. But my tongue craves other delights, wife.”

Hadiza let out a laugh, low and throaty, mischievous and delightful. Samson shot her a dark look, but she kept laughing.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you know what I meant.” He said crossly, but there was a smile bleeding into his voice as the thought and possibilities revealed their merit. Hadiza lay on her back, still laughing, near to tears with the thought.

“What in Andraste’s dimpled arse is so funny, princess?” Samson demanded, and Hadiza peered at him, mirth in her eyes, her hair spread about her like an oil-dark spill of silk amidst the stark white of the duvet. Samson was quick, wincing as he felt a sharp pain in his hip, but managed to get Hadiza under him as her laughter quieted.

“It’s just…” She began laughing again, “You’re always so grouchy when it rains.” She looked up at him, “I’d think you’d be glad we’re not on the road for once.”

Samson thought on it a moment, looking away from her to the window. Raindrops crawled and slithered along the glass pane like hundreds of ghostly fingertips. Beyond the mist and fog, only the forest greeted him, thick with mystery despite how many times he’d ventured into its maw. He thought of everything that he and Hadiza had accomplished since they left the Inquisition behind. So many in this world needed their help, and Samson had only been too happy to play the hero. It felt good, to be seen as what he had always wanted to be. It felt good to have her look at him the way she did in that moment, thoughtful but with a quiet, reserved pride. He let her go, returning to sit at the edge of the bed. Hadiza sat up, coming to him, slipping her arm around his waist.

“What is it?” She asked, her tone rife with concern. Gone was the mirth of her laughter, the note of nonsense that had colored her voice when she teased him. Samson loved this about her, her ability to sense and shift as the situation demanded. There was no wound or ache her healer’s heart would not brave to attempt to mend. But what disturbed his spirit was something even beyond her expert touch.

“Nothing.” He told her, and felt the lie on his tongue like a bitter tonic. He disliked lying to her, but in truth, he had no other answer, only that he was unsettled.

“Are you sure?” She asked, prying again. Samson turned his head to meet her gaze. Contrary to his usual habit, he did not take her hand in his, did not kiss the soft fingertips and her knuckles with slow and careful reverence. Instead, he smiled crookedly, his eyes soft with love.

“I’m sure. Just hate the damned cold, is all.” He told her. Hadiza’s gaze lingered in his own a moment longer, searching, before she leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, seemingly satisfied.

“Alright.” She said softly. Samson felt her unease, and took her chin in his hand, making her watch his face.

“Princess.” He said, his voice firm, “I’m fine.”

The lie stuck.


	2. Chapter 2

When the unusually lengthy and cold winter finally deigned to loosen its grip on the throat of the Free Marches’ band of coastline, couriers resumed traveling the muddied roads, bearing months’ worth of correspondence to eager individuals and families longing to hear from friends and loved ones, business associates and colleagues alike. So too was Samson eager to see a courier beating down the path to his home, bearing missives and letters from those in need of his and his wife’s unique services. He would own that being a mercenary had been better paying in terms of coin back in Kirkwall, but the work he did now, while not as high paying, was far more rewarding. He and Hadiza screened their clients with care. Letters were read and assessed, and both husband and wife judged the importance of missions based on the needs of the client rather than the money they offered. Often, Samson found himself being paid in usable goods like cloth, mended horse shoes and saddles, sacks of flour and grain, ears of corn, and sometimes, even a warm bed and a hot meal. It was not the cold kiss of coin he craved anymore, even though they still charged money for their services, but they had far greater uses for the barter of goods and services than anything.

Still, as winter departed and spring rushed in, and ships cast off to begin the long travels along the waterways, there was no courier. Hadiza spent the early days of spring tending to her ruined garden, which had suffered immensely during the winter storms, clucking her tongue like a disappointed mother over the bedraggled foliage. Samson watched her from the window as she walked the rows, bending over the plants and cupping drooping blossoms in both her hands. The lyrium veins along her false arm flared, and a flash of verdant light, soft and gentle, enveloped the plants. Samson watched as, like rousing children, the sundry plants lifted their bedraggled heads to the magic, and finally to the sun. Hadiza worked her hands into the earth around them, turning and imbuing the soil with restoration magic. Samson sighed at the familiar tingle at the back of his neck, shutting his eyes as he let it creep over him with unnerving familiarity. Twenty years and more, and there was no lesson in the templar repertoire that covered acclimating to the presence of active spellcasting.

Still, to see Hadiza tending to her garden was soothing to watch, and she finally stood, her robes stained with grass and dirt, her hands filthy with it, and sweat on her brow. In the hour she spent there, the garden looked better than it had all winter long, and Samson turned away from the window to tend to his armor. He ran his fingertips along the sharp angles, checking for nicks and chinks in need of repair, and just reveling in the swell of pride that always came when he looked at his armor. Next to it, leaning against the wall, was his sun-shield. He smiled, remembering how it was almost lost to him forever. He’d hawked it for coin only to spend that coin on the dwarf dust during a time he was less than proud of admitting he ever lived in. And Hadiza, in her cleverness, had sent her frightening ghost of a sister to track it down in the Black Emporium. Samson took this shield and knew it was a chance at something more.

Still, his spirit was unsettled.

So much had changed in the past few years, and he felt he was coming upon a crossroads. He knew, in his heart, that this was true, but he had no one with which to compare notes. All of the templars that remained were under the control of Grand Enchanter Vivienne, who ran a Circle of her own, in the style of what were quickly being called the Old Ways. From what he heard, the mages that chose to remain with her had a good turn at developing their powers, and the templars were leashed that the never got out of hand as it had been in Kirkwall. Even so, Samson mistrusted the idea, but the Divine allowed it.

His thoughts turned instead to the Red Templars. He imagined by now he was all that remained of that dangerous and rogue amalgamation of fury, rage, and arrogance. There had been no reported incidents in over two years, and he wagered Hadiza and Cullen had worked in tandem to make quick work of what was left. Even now, to think of them being hunted down like dogs, like animals, and being put down like so, filled him with an irrational anger. They had been his men, each and every one. He had convinced them to swallow the poison that made them monstrosities, and he had made them drink from the same cup of his rage, had used them to point the sword of his hatred right at the Chantry’s perfidious heart.

And now he was all that was left of that bloody legacy.

Samson’s hands lingered on the chestplate of his armor on the stand, and he sank into his memories, remembering snatches of conversation around the fire after days of marching across Thedas. He remembered the strangeness of seeing an arm that for once did not travel on its belly, and instead was fueled entirely by a single purpose. Samson swore he would get them all the glory they deserved, and he remembered Fasadé’s words to him, that he had used them to get glory for himself, to bring upon himself all he thought he was entitled to.

The old jealousy, the old hatred stirred in his heart like a wind over a grave. It made his mouth dry, and he was surprised at himself to find that even though he was making his name as a hero of the land, as a man who turned his life around, as a villain who turned away from the darkness to walk in the light...it was not enough. He wanted more than this, but had no idea what it was that lit the dead-ash furnace of his heart.

A knock on the door broke the spell, and he took his hands away from the armor, and went to see who it was. He knew without having to see that a courier was at the door, and when he opened it to find a man of middling years bearing a satchel, he sucked his teeth.

“This is the residence of Her Worship, yes?” The man asked. Samson narrowed his eyes. It stung a little, but he always knew that would be the way of things when he married Hadiza. She was the Inquisitor, and he was the Inquisitor’s husband. In some places, he was not even that.

“Aye,” he said slowly, “it is. You’ve word for her?”

The courier dug into his bag, removing a single oilskin bound tight with a silk cord. Samson took it, never taking his eyes off the courier.

“That all?” He asked curtly. The courier frowned at him, insolence in his eyes.

“Aye, General.” He said, limning the word in contempt. Samson’s expression never changed and he waited until the courier was down the path, swinging a leg over his horse and riding away before he went inside, shutting and locking the door behind him.

“Was that a courier?” Hadiza called from another room. Samson looked down at the bound oilskin a moment and sighed.

“Aye.” He replied, “With one bloody letter for you, Your Worship.” He entered the bedroom, found her soiled robes hanging over the folding screen she was behind.

“Ugh.” She said, “Please don’t call me that. I’d rather not be reminded of that life.”

Samson laughed. “What life? The one of power, prestige, and your own personal army? Come on, princess, you miss it a little.”

Hadiza emerged from behind the screen, clad in a silk robe embroidered with the curling imagery of elfroot.

“I do, but that doesn’t mean I want my own husband addressing me thus.” She said irritably, then stole a glance at the bound oilskin in his hand. “That it?” She gestured with a jerk of her chin.

Samson handed it over, and watched as she went to her desk, laying it on the table to pick deftly at the knot until she could carefully unroll the oilskin to reveal the protected roll of vellum within. She ran her fingertips over the thick flesh of it, studying the words. Samson kept his distance, quiet and pensive. Hadiza read the letter, moving her lips quietly as she breathed the words without sound. Her brow knit in concern at some parts, raised in surprise at others, but ultimately, in the end, the concern lingered, a strong presence that made the room feel thick with magic.

“What is it?” Samson asked, “Some old grandmother lost her grandchildren in the woods?” He made an attempt at jesting, but the lines in her face did not smooth away as he hoped they would. Instead, she set the letter down quietly, looking up at the window. The sunlight poured through the trees, casting her lush garden in verdant and abundant light. Butterflies fluttered around the heavy blossoms of crystal grace, their delicate and powdery wings stark against the blue flowers.

“I have to go to Tantervale.” She murmured quietly, brushing her fingertips over the letter. Samson’s face went ashen with shock.

“ _What_?” He snapped, “Who in their right mind would summon you there?” He closed the distance between them, picking up the letter to read it over. When he saw the stamped seal, however, his shoulders bowed.

“Your father.” He said under his breath, a growl in his voice. “Of course.” He looked at her, saw that she hadn’t taken her eyes off whatever distant place she was looking at.

“You don’t owe him anything anymore, Hadiza.” Samson prompted, “Not a damned thing, you hear me? You can say no.”

Hadiza looked up. “Can I?” She asked. “Can I, really? Did you see what he was offering?”

“And at what cost to you?” Samson asked. “What barbs are hidden in this that you’re failing to see? Your father hasn’t contacted you since you broke the news to him that we married. And now all of a sudden he needs your help? In one of the most Chantry-crazed cities in the Marches?”

Hadiza stepped back.

“My father is a fool and he hates mages, but I do not think he’d lead me into a place he did not think I could handle myself, Samson.”

Samson made a move to speak but swallowed his anger.

“And what if it is something more, Hadiza? The Divine’s reach is only so long. And while you’re celebrated in Val Royeaux, Tantervale is a long ways from the Sunburst Throne. I have to go with you.”

“No!” Hadiza said loudly surprising them both. “No.” Quieter this time. “I have to do this alone. Seeing you will only drive my father to...do more than usual. Let me just go and see what he wants or needs. Tantervale is only two weeks’ ride from here, and I can send a courier from Starkhaven.”

“And what of your magic?” Samson asked. “The city guard loves enforcing the Chantry’s rules there. One snap of your fingers and they’ll clap you in chains. I _have_ to go with you.”

Hadiza balled her hand into a fist.

“I can handle this, Samson.” She said firmly. “I need you here, keeping the lanterns burning for my return. I need you here so I can make a speedy return home.”

Samson’s mouth opened then shut.

“Hadiza…” He pleaded, choking on his own pride. “Don’t leave me here to rot and wait wondering if something’s gone awry. I pledged my sword and my life to you long before my heart got lost in the bargain. Allow me that at least.”

Hadiza stared at him, and he stared back, and the silence felt heavy with everything that should have been said. He was right, she knew he was right, but she also knew her father. The sight of them together turned Bann Trevelyan’s stomach, and prompted him to lash out in ways that left her feeling drained and fatigued. But those bonds of family ran strong like a current in her blood, sweeping away rational thought and doubt, and forcing her to act.

Her father needed her, and in some small part of herself, she wanted to help him. Perhaps in doing this, it would ease his sharp edges, soften his words, and make him see that she was still the daughter he loved as a girl.

But Samson’s presence would only foreshorten that possibility, and so she planted her feet.

“I’m sorry, my love.” She said quietly, “But in this, I must act alone. Aside, I don’t expect there to be any fighting.”

Samson’s eyes went wide, then the heavy furrow of his brow came together, making him look sharp and stern, but there was a hurt in his eyes that Hadiza had to look away from briefly, steeling her resolve against his outrage.

“You and I both know when it comes to your father it’s not my sword and shield I use to protect you. Why are you so determined to do this alone, Hadiza? You think helping him will make him love you? Make him more accepting of what we are to each other?”

The words struck as sure as a blow, and Hadiza stepped back, swallowing against a sudden thickness in her throat. She clamped her teeth around a small sound, the mewl of a wounded animal struggling to hide its weakness from a greater predator. Samson, realizing his error, reached for her but she drew away from him, tightening her robe and leaving the room. Samson heard the door to her laboratory open and then slam shut, wincing at the finality with which the bolt turned and locked him out.

He stood, feeling more foolish than anything, his anger drained from him as sure as water through a sieve, leaving only the aching emptiness and regret that he’d made yet another mistake he could not undo. But he had the right to his anger! She would have him be foresworn from his vow for her foolish Trevelyan pride! And what was he to do? Sit at home like a dutiful husband until she came riding in, high from the expedient praise of her father, until he deigned to tear her down again and Samson was forced to pick up the pieces?

He was tired of it. Tired of the cycle, and most of all, tired of Bann Trevelyan’s willful and nigh gleeful manipulation of the wound he’d put in his daughter’s heart. Were it up to him, he’d have wrung the bastard’s neck when they first met. Hadiza did not deserve this, and Bann Trevelyan did not deserve a daughter like her.

And yet, all it took was one heartfelt letter and all of her carefully constructed defenses crumbled. Hercinia was their safe haven from the world, and even then they could not escape her father’s reach. Samson kicked ineffectually at the chair’s leg, cursing as he forgot he had no boots, stubbing his toe.

The sun crawled across the bedroom, and he heard no sounds from the laboratory, even when he went to the door. He thought of knocking, of going to her and apologizing for the cruelty of his words, but pride stayed his hand and stymied his tongue. No, he’d not bend to her charms and tears this time. He knew he was right to accompany her on this assignment, regardless. Tantervale was no friend to mages, or disgraced templars.

Evening came, and Samson gave up hearing from Hadiza until she was hungry, and opted to make the evening meal, a simple affair of stewed vegetables, the last of them, with only salt and a few dried herbs for flavor. They were grossly understocked, and their coffers thin. Somehow, Samson blamed the Bann for this. He knew they were going broke, and capitalized on this opportunity. Hadiza would go, complete the assignment, and get their payment. Samson suspected that the ordeal would encompass Bann Trevelyan’s cruel taunts and jabs at her character and marriage and by the time those coins filled their coffer, she would not want them.

But they needed the money or they would starve.

Samson sighed, wishing the courier had brought more than one letter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

Samson woke the next morning to a cold bed, and accompanying panic and dread that perhaps Hadiza had decided to leave earlier than expected. Surely her father’s hold on her was not that strong was it? He rolled over, trying to recall if Hadiza had ever come to bed that evening, and knew from the undisturbed side she usually slept on that she had spent the night in her laboratory.

He sighed, passing his hands over his face.

The kitchen was cold, with not so much as a fire stoked. Samson glanced toward Hadiza’s laboratory door, and swore he could feel the wards push against him in retaliation. Hadiza’s anger was palpable to him, and he knew that he’d gone too far. He could only wait until she came to him so he could apologize to her properly.

_ I’ll buy her a dozen peonies.  _ He chided himself.  _ Fill the whole Maker bedamned room with them. I’ll get her that starlight oil she loves so much. I’m an arse for that. I should have...but I was right. She has to face the truth. Her father doesn’t care about her. But it didn’t have to be said like that. _

And on it went as he fixed his pitiable breakfast of sugared millet balls, leaving enough for Hadiza in case she emerged, ravenous as he knew her to be in the morning. He decided not to wait. The day was good, and he opted to load into his armor, feeling awkward without her there to complete their morning ritual of her aiding him. He grabbed his baldric last, looping it over himself and sighed as the familiar weight of  _ Redemption  _ settled on his back like the arm of an old friend around him. From there, he made his way to the small but decent training yard.

And there, he lost himself in memory.

Every stroke of his sword, every arc of his blade, pivot of his foot, shift of his weight, he imagined foes he had already conquered. The dance was intricate, and despite the ache in his joints, the strain of exercise served to invigorate him. No enemy he’d faced had yet to fell him.

Save the one.

He finished his exercises, lowering his blade to survey his footprints in the soft earth. Had anyone looked, one might have called him a dancer--albeit a foolish assumption it would have been. But Samson had a trained eye for this, and saw his errors in the dirt as sure as if they had been written there.

He had gotten slower.

In the past, it would not have mattered. A vial of the red or the blue would have cleared him of all doubt in himself and abilities, and dulled the knife edge of pain heralded by his increasing age. Now, he had only the grit of what his body could do to rely on. He smiled smugly. For a man in his early fifties he was a damned sight faster and stronger than most of the young bucks eager to proof themselves and blood their swords. Satisfied with that self-affirmation, Samson shifted to the next exercise of dagger tossing. It was an artform all templars learned, for a dagger might better serve the faith where a sword could not, and Samson admitted he enjoyed the art. There was something satisfying about feeling the careful weight of the blade in his hand, and tossing it end over end, and hearing the satisfying  _ thunk  _ as it buried into its target: a head, a shoulder, a throat, or a chest.

His aim was still true, at least.

He heard her inside as he was dislodging the last dagger from the target dummy’s head, and hesitating, he debated going inside to greet her before she vanished into her laboratory again. He owed her an apology, and if she sought to leave today for Tantervale, he did not want her leaving angry.

After careful deliberation, he sheathed his daggers and went inside. He found her in the kitchen, brewing herself a pot of tea. She steeped the leaves in the boiling water, her back to him, raven hair spilling along the length of her spine, glossy and thick. Samson longed to run his fingers through it, massage her scalp, and apologize. Then he wanted to kiss her until their quarrel was forgotten.

He just did not want her angry with him when he was only trying to tell the truth.

“Morning.” He grunted shortly, and nearly winced when she shot him a look over her shoulder, silver eyes cutting as sure as her blade. Samson hesitated again, then sighed.

“Look,” he said, watching as she began to aggressively make her tea, rummaging through cupboards and cabinets, “I don’t want us leaving off like this. I’m sorry I was an arse to you yesterday, about your da. You’ve every right to want to help him. He’s family. I just...I know how you and him get around each other, and I don’t want to see you hurt is all.”

Hadiza said nothing, sucking her teeth in annoyance as her frantic search continued. Samson narrowed his eyes, and went into a small cupboard to retrieve the last jar of Rivaini honey from her family’s apiary in Zazzau. He turned the jar over in his hands.

“Princess,” he said, “can you please just talk to me about this? I’m trying my best.”

Hadiza paused, turning to him, stealing a cursory glance of the honey in his hands. She took a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and came to him only to snatch the honey from his hands and return to her tea.

“For fuck’s sake, Hadiza, I said I was sorry. I shouldn’t have said that horrible shit.” He groused. Hadiza dropped her spoon in the mug and turned on him, her eyes blazing.

“Oh?” She asked, and Samson knew from the way she said it that he was in for it. “Do you really mean that, Samson? Are you sorry you said the words? Or sorry you said them out loud?”

Samson drew back as if struck.

“I’m sorry I said them.” He said after a moment, “You know I’d never want to hurt you like that but--”

Hadiza held up her hand.

“If your apology comes with a clause, keep it.” She said. “I’ve heard enough. I’ve packing to do and a trip to plan.”

Samson felt his anger bubble up, hot and volcanic, breaking through the crust of his composure and setting his blood ablaze. He breathed deep, trying to cool it, but to no avail. Hadiza had the remarkable gift of infuriating him in ways he could not fathom, just as she goaded his desire in ways he had never imagined.

“So that’s how it is, then?” He demanded, “You just shit all over my attempt to make amends because you’re too prideful to admit I might be right?”

The temperature in the room dropped momentarily, so sudden it made him sneeze from the chill. Hadiza stood, unmoved and untouched by the change. She was well and truly angry.

“You have no right to ask forgiveness from me.” She said coldly. “None.”

And then she left. He heard her in the bedroom, angrily slamming open drawers and her wardrobe, packing her bags for the long journey ahead of her. He also heard the underlying murmur of her hurt, the occasional sniffle as she fought back her tears.

Samson felt guilt worm through his gut.

_ You have no right to ask forgiveness from me. _

Try as he might, he could find nothing with which to refute that. He had no right to ask anything of her when she had given him his life back and more. When she had risked her own in loving him at all. But this wasn’t right. No, he could not let herself be hurt on account of her father’s manipulation. So he listened to her pack, heard angry swears, and then the telltale sound of her going for her false arm which he knew took her longer to don on her own. Swallowing, caught between the tide of his anger and his guilt, he went to her and found her struggling with the harness in her frustration.

“Hadiza,” he said softly, as she continued to fight with it, “Hadiza let me help.”

The strap came loose and Hadiza let out a frustrated sob, throwing the false appendage across the room. It clattered against the wall and fell, lifeless, to the floor, the fingers contorted in an inhuman shape. Hadiza put her face in her hand, and kept crying.

And Samson stood there, unsure if she wanted his comfort, or was crying because she was angry with him still. He put his arms around her and found that it was neither.

“I’m sorry.” He said again, burying his face in her hair. “Maker’s Blood, I’m so sorry.”

She sniffled once but said nothing. Samson cursed himself for having grown so soft that a woman’s tears could melt his resolve so. But in truth, he knew their angry words had been misdirected. Would that Bann Trevelyan could have heard them! He’d crow with the petty victory he’d earned by the mere mention of his name. Hadiza wiped her eyes and nose.

“I know.” She said finally. “It’s just that in House Trevelyan, loyalty to family and the faith is drilled into us from an early age. And my father made sure we knew the difference between the two and which was more important. Still...if it is something he has contacted me for specifically, it must mean he is truly in trouble.”

Samson nodded.

“I know, but can I at least trail behind you? Maker, I don’t like you having to face that man alone, princess.”

Hadiza shook her head. “Samson, I love you. And you’ve protected me in body, mind, and spirit more than anyone in my life. But my father can only harm me with words. And I’d rather you not...give him another bruised eye.”

Samson smiled smugly.

“Don’t much see why you’d mind so much. Wouldn’t be you throwing the punches, now would it?”

Hadiza laughed, slapping his chest gently.

“Don’t be an arse.”

Samson shrugged.

“Can we not fight like that anymore?” She asked. “I hated that. And the laboratory was cold.” Samson smirked, leaning in to kiss her.

“No more fights like that, princess, I promise.” Hadiza kissed him back, soundly, and a for a while, all thoughts of packing were forgotten as they retired to bed, stripping one another of armor and clothing alike. Samson winced in the back of his mind at the carelessness with which he tossed his armor aside, but as Hadiza drew him down to her, heedless of the sour stink of his sweat, and the grime that covered him, he pushed that worry aside.

Samson sat on his heels as his wife wrapped her long legs around him, and he kissed her, planting on the angular planes of her face, the tip of her nose, making her tilt her head so he could stake a claim on the arc of her throat. She moaned, wrapping her arm around him as he leaned in to take one dusky nipple into his mouth, nipping it to make her yelp.

“My apologies, princess,” he said, meaning not a single word of it as he sucked her nipple in apology, reveling in her groan of pleasure. He was already hard and hot for her, something he hoped would never change, even as his hands slid down her back to cup her ass and pulled her forward until the blunt head of his cock nudged her open. She parted around him easily, already wet.

“Raleigh…” She whispered into his open mouth as they kissed, only to moan as he slid into her slowly, laughing as her legs closed behind him, bringing her closer.

“Mm.” He responded when he was deep enough for a start. “What is it, princess?”

She didn’t answer at first, eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure, pupils wide and dark as she moved her hips only to find herself held still by his sure grip.

“I…” Words trailed from the tip of her tongue, dissolving in his mouth as he kissed her again and began to move. Hadiza clung to him as best as she could, letting him move them both in slow, languorous strokes that made her toes curl. She shut her eyes tight, swearing under her breath. They continued that slow pace, even as Samson’s finger dug into the curves of her ass, spreading her apart. There, he circled the puckered bud with the pad of his middle finger in time to his strokes. Hadiza dissolved in his arms, whimpering in frustration.

“Maker’s Balls…” he swore, feeling a wash of wet warmth over his cock as he continued. Hadiza’s nails dug into his back, raking, catching on the ragged edges of scars silvered by time. He hissed, the pain goading him into a punishing rhythm, which he knew was her aim all along.

Samson would never be ashamed to admit that he and his wife wasted an entire afternoon in bed. He would not have even called it a waste. It had been some time since they’d made love with that much vigor, and it was nice to be with a woman who was as in love with him as she was with what he could do to her. He took her anyway she asked: on her back, with her legs draped over his shoulders, and his cock so deep he could feel the heavy flesh of his balls against her arse; on her side, with one hand at her throat, the other keeping her leg up; and his personal favorite: her on all fours, her cheek buried in the pillows, her arse in the air.

He loved the sound of it, really, the way her nails raked across the grained wood of the headboard, clawing for purchase, the way she stuffed the pillow between her teeth to muffle her screams, the sound of his hips meeting her arse in a cadence that he owed entirely to too much time spent whoring in Kirkwall. He took her fast, slow, deep, hard, teased her until she begged and pleaded in that lilting Rivaini accent for him to make an end of it. And when he came with a shout, he spread her open and took her with his mouth alone, tasting them on his tongue, and remembering that she would soon be riding toward her father, sore and aching in all the delicious parts of herself. Samson felt smug at the thought, and when the last tremors of her climax faded, he lay with her, sated and exhausted, the sunset flooding the bedroom with golden, fading light. Hadiza lay in his arms and for a moment, all was perfectly well. Samson felt himself missing those weeks in Rivain where they locked the world and its problems out, and teased one another, fed one another choice bits of chilled fruit and figs from a platter, and lived like royalty.

“I miss it.” She murmured into his throat, as if reading his thoughts. Samson idly stroked her sweat-dampened hair.

“Rivain?” He ventured. Hadiza made a noise of assent, like a cat satisfied with the cream.

“Yes,” she said, “but I miss the Inquisition too. All the excitement and danger of it. It made the time go by so quickly.”

“Am I to understand, princess, that you’re bored?” Samson asked raising his brows. Hadiza chuckled lazily, the sound throaty and hoarse from her voice’s fatigue.

“Not bored, no. But I feel like our life is beginning to settle. It makes me wonder if we were meant to just be...like this.” She rubbed the stump of her left elbow on his chest. “You’re a warrior...and I was the Inquisitor, a warrior-mage. Our lives weren’t made to be quiet and away from the world.”

Samson understood all too well what she meant, and was glad that for once, they were in accord.

“Would you rather the world be burning and thrown into chaos?” He asked, “So that you can find something to do with your time aside from spend it fucking me?”

Hadiza sat up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She asked.

“Calm down, princess.” Samson chided playfully, “Was only having a go at you, is all. But are you really bored with our life here? You’re the one who chose this place because it plays a little fast and loose with the law, and lets you operate and practice magic in peace.”

Hadiza shrugged. “Bored isn’t the word I’d use to describe how I feel. I guess you could say I’m restless. We’ve received no letters from anyone in need of help of our capacity. And...I don’t know. With Solas still out there, it feels highly suspect.”

On that, Samson could agree.

“No doubt that bastard elf is planning the worst of atrocities,” he grumbled, “but if you don’t mind...I rather like our lives here. Could do to make a bit more coin, though.”

Hadiza laughed. “Could always rent you out to the locals in town. You’ve the stamina for it.”

Samson stared at her. “At  _ my  _ age? I’d be dead within a day, provided anyone could stand to look at me long enough to buy my cock for an hour or two.”

Hadiza moved to straddle him.

“I’d buy your cock for an hour or two,” she said, “perhaps longer...just to ensure I get my money’s worth.”

Samson laughed. “That’s because you’re an insatiable little minx, princess. Maker, I swear all my strength goes into making sure that pretty little cunt of yours is satisfied everyday.”

Hadiza tossed her hair, smiling wickedly.

“Doesn’t seem like you’re miserable going about your husband duties.” She teased. Samson reached between her thighs, licking his lips. It  _ was  _ pretty to him, the way her clit swelled just enough for him to see it through the damp, downy curls, the easy slide of his finger along that slit when she was wet enough to drown him. He swallowed to wet his suddenly dry throat.

“You sure you’re not using some sort of magic on me?” He asked, idly running his fingertip back and forth along the entrance. Hadiza said nothing, but her smile grew wider as his finger slipped inside easily.

“Minx.” Samson said, his smirk bleeding into his voice.

All was truly well.


	4. Chapter 4

Hadiza put off her travels for a day longer, but made moves to pack seriously, unsure of how long she would be away. Samson helped, ensuring she had everything she needed, including an adequate supply of lyrium potions.

“Expecting me to run into long skirmishes in Tantervale?” She asked him wryly, watching him pack them away expertly before securing them in a saddlebag.

“In Tantervale?” He replied, “It’s a high possibility. Those people are far enough up the Chantry’s arse that I wouldn’t be surprised if someone picked a fight with you.”

“But I  _ was  _ the Inquisitor,” Hadiza reasoned, “doesn’t that count for something at least?”

Samson checked and rechecked her armor, fixing her baldric for her sword, and checking the blade on her partisan.

“Aye,” he said absently, “but you’re also the mage who married the disgraced templar and openly cavorted with him in front of the peerage of Orlais. I’d say that scandal outweighs your title, Your Worship.”

“Openly cavorted?” Hadiza asked, her voice shrill. Samson smirked, watched as the memory dawned on her, and could practically feel the heat of the flush in her cheeks.

“Ah.” She said, “Yes, well...might have been a good idea to close the curtains first, I guess.”

“Memory serve, princess,” Samson said, checking her weapons again, “you had no objections to being fucked within sight of half the Orlesian nobility. And you definitely seemed to enjoy it when I slid my co--”

Hadiza put her hand over his mouth.

“No need to reiterate. I was there too, love. Now, are you done being a mother hen?” Samson handed her her partisan which she took and easily broke down to hook to her baldric for easy access. Thus armored, and her saddlebags packed, Samson nodded.

“Will you at least let me escort you to the perimeter?” He asked and Hadiza pursed her lips before sighing.

“Fine. The perimeter. And please, please, please water my plants.” She fussed as they made their way out the door to where their horses were saddled. Nyx scuffed at the ground with a hoof, snorting at the sight of Hadiza but keeping his place. The Friesian blinked its limpid eyes at the couple as he stoically accepted the weight of the saddlebags on his back. Samson watched as Hadiza swung effortlessly into the saddle, and then mounted his own horse. With the house warded, they rode off into the forest path, which was little more than a thin trail that broke in some places as the forest grew thicker, but eventually emptied out onto the main road.

They talked as they rode, but for the most part, like many of their rides since moving to this lovely place, it was companionable silence that they kept. It was telling, from the leisurely gait to which they kept their mounts restricted, that neither was eager to be parted, but Samson knew Hadiza was more than able to handle herself against any foe. And even then, he had assured that he added to her already extensive combat skills that no man nor woman nor beast cross her without carefully thinking it through. She was an expert at finding places to camp, and she was decent enough at hunting. Her time in the Inquisition had served her well and he could only hope it continued to do so when he was not there to hold to his oath and defend her body and soul with his own life.

The thought of parting with her hurt a great deal less than the thought of  _ losing  _ her did, and he had to trust her skills could keep her safe on the road to Tantervale.

And that her title could keep her safe when she reached Tantervale.

The path wound through the forest, familiar and intimate as only they could know it, and eventually, two hours later, came out to the treeline along the paved road, the ancient tendril of many such roads paved by the Imperium thousands of years ago. Thus his promise fulfilled, Samson was forced to bid his wife goodbye. They dismounted, and she threw both her arms around him without hesitation. He kissed her soundly, lingering, making sure she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would miss her terribly when she was gone. And Hadiza, in her own way, reciprocated.

“Remember the rune combination for the wards,” she reminded him, “and to use the fire rod only if my wards fail. And don’t drink all of my tea. I can’t afford to write Auntie Djeneba for more. And my plants! Please mind that you prune the weeds away from the crystal grace. It’s taken me months to cultivate and grow, and it’s so rare I--”

Samson put a his fingers to her lips.

“Princess,” he told her, “I’ve got it. Get riding, you’re losing daylight.”

Hadiza hesitated, looking down the long stretch of road heading west toward Starkhaven and beyond. She took a deep breath and exhaled, her resolve hardened. Samson smiled. That was his Hadiza; brave even in the face of the most unarticulated challenges.

“Alright.” She said, more to herself than to him, “Alright. Oh.” She kissed him again, making him laugh, until he hauled her into the saddle, slapped Nyx’s rear and sent her at a canter down the road. She looked back once, and then spurred her mount. Samson watched as she dwindled out of view, and then mounted his own horse and turned to head back into the forest toward home.

It was not the first time they’d been parted, but it was the first time Samson felt the void of Hadiza’s absence keenly. Returning back to their home was diminished. Even the fingers of sunlight, prodding through the canopy of the forest, was softer. The world around him was dimmer for want of Hadiza’s presence entirely. He stabled his horse, brushing him down and patting him companionably with a laugh.

“Just you and me, now, Riordan.” He muttered, “For Maker knows how long. Better we make the best of it, see if we can drum up any work in the area. Bound to be someone that needs a knight.”

He left the stable, circling around the house to the garden, and he swore even the blooms hung their heads in sorrow, missing the woman who tended them with affectionate care. Samson walked the rows, checking the alchemical plants for health. The leaves were vibrant with life, shot through with veins, the blooms fragrant and soothing, and for a while, Samson stood there in the garden, surrounded by healing plants, poisonous plants--carefully cordoned off by a small trellis--and edible plants. Samson exhaled, and lingered a moment longer before heading inside.

It occurred to him that in her absence, he had far more time on his hands than usual, and so he rummaged through his own drawers, and found the black, leatherbound journal beneath his clothing. He laughed to himself to think he’d need to hide such a thing, but Hadiza was one to pry, and while he would share anything with her, this…this was his alone.

The pages were filled, mostly with musings, and he thumbed through the weathered pages, noting the gap of time between the time he first began taking red lyrium, until the night before he marched to the Temple of Mythal. Reading through the journal, he barely recognized the enraged man that wrote the words, and yet all the anxiety of that evening was summoned like a ghost, making him swallow hard. He had been willing to lay everything down for that cause. He and so many others, and he’d known in his heart of hearts that like so many things in his life, he lacked conviction. But his men had genuinely believed, had followed him filled with purpose, and once the lyrium got them...filled with little else.

Samson thumbed further through the journal, reading his musings during the time of Hadiza’s possession. That too had been painful, but he knew he needed that outlet. He came to a blank page, and began to write.

The sun engaged in a slow shift from one window to the other, and Samson continued to write. The words came in a rush, disjointed and without theme. But he found his voice was more confident in ink than it was when he spoke. And when he ran out of words, he set down the quill and leaned back in the chair. Night was falling and he was starved. Knowing Hadiza would be as like to murder him if she knew, he deliberated whether or not to ride into Hercinia proper and treat himself to a well-cooked meal. He knew he couldn’t afford to waste the coppers and silvers on it, but he was thirsting for a pint and a steaming fish and egg pie. Maker that sounded good!

Aside, he needed to find work in town and so he felt justified eating at the local tavern.

“Well,” he said aloud to no one in particular, “that’s settled. Sorry, princess, but a man’s got to eat.”

He laughed to himself, and went to the wash basin to examine his face in the mirror. A shave would have done him some good, after letting his beard grow out all winter, and he took his time, until the gaunt angles of his face became visible again. He rubbed the soothing oil on his face, taking extra time on his chin and neck, and used the rest to slick back his hair. By the time he saddled up Riordan again, night had fallen and he had to break open one of the orbs of fae-lights Hadiza had crafted for night travel. In the darkness of the forest, he might as well have set a full blaze. But the path was lit for both himself and his mount and he made his way toward Hercinia.

* * *

Hadiza sat in her tent, examining her map by the light of a single fae-light hovering over her head, her expression pensive. She’d ridden hell-for-leather for hours, and even sitting was uncomfortable. It was a common misconception that Trevelyans were practically born in a saddle, but while Hadiza prided herself on her horsemanship, she still couldn’t take being in the saddle for too long. She shifted again, grunting in discomfort before marking her place on the map. Outside the tent, Nyx snorted at the tent flap.

“I’m busy,” Hadiza said, not looking up from her map, “and you can’t fit in here.”

Her mount’s answering silence seemed rife with indignation and Hadiza looked up and saw the shadow of her Friesian moving to bed down for the night. She stole a glance at the saddle on the other side of the tent, and then sighed.

“Well, it’s not as if I can go any farther tonight,” she muttered, “I might as well sleep.”

Hadiza promptly rummaged through on the saddlebags and withdrew a book entitled  _ Practical Theories of Transport Magic _ by a Tevene scholar named Quintus Adventrix, who was known in arcane circles as one who pushed the envelope on how to use such spells as a fade-step. Hadiza stayed up a while longer, reading up on theories that made her mouth open in shock. While most were refuted and debunked over the years, some were plausible. She wondered if the Tevenes had managed port magic in the same style as her cousin Babacar. Hadiza could think of the uses of port magic, one of which had saved her from falling to her death, but the spell itself was dangerous and uncertain.

And she had learned the hard way the dangers of tampering with unknown magics with no safeguards in place. She could hear Vivienne’s scolding all the way from Val Royeaux, and smiled before marking her place in the book with a slip of vellum, and blowing out her fae-light to sleep.

Dawn came just as Hadiza was crawling out of her tent and began breaking down her camp. Nyx grazed nearby as she ate a quick breakfast of millet balls, and thawed her fingers by the fire. When she finished, she doused the fire and packed her saddlebags. She was three days from Starkhaven, and it occurred to her that she had not seen a single soul on the road since she departed Hercinia. The day was bright, with barely a wisp of cloud in the sky, and she took the time to take in the sights. No matter how many times she set out from her front door seeking fortune and adventure and purpose, there was always something new to see along the winding road that threaded through the Free Marches.

Hadiza stroked her her mount’s neck, shifting in the saddle to watch a pair of birds dart across the road, circling one another in loops and dives. She smiled as they vanished into the nearby bush. For hours, she wondered if the rainstorms had done significant damage that not so much as a merchant passed her by, and she fingered her coin purse on her belt, weighing her options. Her supplies were, as yet, sufficient, and her food stores would hold her until she reached Starkhaven, but she found herself missing the easy luxury of the Inquisition, and even of her time in Rivain. She found her tongue longing for the elegant sweetness of an Orlesian macaron, or the savory spice of beef pepper soup and  _ masa _ . Hadiza wandered the road, smiling lazily at the thought of all the delectable food she would buy at the market when her father paid her for the assignment he was asking of her.

The thought of her father sobered her promptly, enough to see the shimmering shadow of a wagon in the distance ahead of her. As she drew closer, she smiled to see a friendly looking elderly man at the head of the cart.

“Ave!” Hadiza said cheerily as she brought Nyx up alongside the man in a perky trot. The old man looked up at her from beneath his bushy gray brows, and smiled, showing yellowed teeth, two of which were missing.

“You aren’t Tevene,” he said, “but you are a lovely sight, traveler. What brings you out on the open road? And with such a fine mount!”

Hadiza laughed, tossing her head so that her hair swung over one shoulder.

“I’m traveling to see my father.” She said, giddy with the comfort of speaking to another human soul after days of silence and solitude. “Are you a merchant by chance?”

The old man glanced back at his wagon, covered but laden with what could only be something of value.

“I’m afraid not, my lady,” he said, smiling ruefully, “just an old farmer looking to make some coin in Starkhaven.” He glanced at her shrewdly. “You sound like a Marcher. Where are you from. By chance?”

“Ostwick, kind sir,” Hadiza said, surprising herself with the beaming pride in her voice, “the jewel of the Eastern Coasts.”

“Indeed, indeed,” said the old man, “you certainly have that Ostian flare and pride. Where are you bound?”

Hadiza almost hesitated, wondering if there was any harm in telling the truth. After the last few years, it was hard to tell if a friendly face was more than such, or if an enemy pulled the strings to lead her astray. Hadiza swallowed and shrugged her shoulders.

“Tantervale.” She said firmly, still smiling. “My father waits for me there.”

The old man said nothing, and for a few moments his wagon trundled along the road, pulled by a single donkey, while Hadiza rode beside him astride her Friesian.

“Why are you traveling alone? I thought nobles generally traveled in carriages, with armed escorts, and all manner of fuss.”

Hadiza felt her blood run cold.

“How do you know I’m a noble?” She asked carefully, trying to will confidence into her voice. The old man laughed good-naturedly.

“You’ve that look about you,” he explained, “and no man or woman I know can afford such a fine horse as the one you’re riding. I lived in Ostwick in my youth...only nobles who breed Friesians is House Trevelyan. You one of theirs?”

Hadiza smiled, and then she did lie.

“No,” she shook her head, “but they did sell this horse to my family, and others like it.”

The old man nodded again, and Hadiza breathed a quiet sigh of relief and sent a prayer of thanks to the Maker and Andraste for the reprieve.

“Damn shame,” the old man said ruefully, “heard the patriarch was killed some weeks past.”


	5. Chapter 5

Samson would never admit aloud that he had a temper. Well and so, his temper had lain waste to much of southern Thedas. Still, he would credit himself with some degree of temperance and patience, due in no small part to the rigors of his templar discipline and training. He had, in his seemingly ever-increasing well of patience and temperance, learned to haggle with merchants, bargain with brigands and bandits, and when the situation called for it, resist the nigh preternatural charms of his own wife. He credited himself a great deal with hard-won patience.

But for now, he was one exhale away from reaching across the bar to wring the tender’s neck.

“What do you mean there’s been a ban on freelancing?” He asked through gritted teeth, trying to keep his hands still. The tender looked up at him sullenly, refilling a pint of ale which he slid down the bar to another patron. Samson cursed his damnable lack of coin as a pint would have done him a world of good in that moment.

“I said what I said,” the tender said nastily, “now either buy something or get up so a paying customer can.”

Samson balled his hands into fists and breathed deep. The tender seemed unamused nor afraid. Samson assumed the man was unaware of who he was...or rather,  _ used to be _ .

_ That blasted armor would do me a world of good right about now. Bet he’d give me work, then. _

“Well if there’s a ban on freelancers, do you know where I can go to find some work that needs doing?” Samson asked after a beat. The tender seemed ready to reply nastily again, but then sighed.

“The ban’s only for Hercinia, far as I know,” he said, more reserved than before, “but you can try your luck in Ansburg or Markham. There’s always work to be had in the larger cities.” He looked Samson up and down. “Or crewing for one of the ships. They’re always looking for sailors.”

Samson thanked the man for his patience and left the tavern, stepping out into the cool, balmy night as he left the raucous laughter and song behind for the quiet murmur of the streets. He stood there for a moment, watching people pass him by. Hercinia was a veritable mix of varying peoples, not all native Marchers. He saw Antivans, Rivaini, and even a few Fereldan folk, and was reminded of Kirkwall, always Kirkwall.

Home was many things to him, and right at that moment it was galloping toward Tantervale.

Samson cracked his knuckles and rubbed at his stubble as he made his decision. Markham was closer, but the people there were rather pushy and insular. He could have ridden further west to Ostwick, but he had no interest in staving off Chantry mothers attempting to preach the faith to him. Ansburg was farther north, but likely to have more to offer. Still, the ride would take its toll on him and render him useless in combat, he knew. He was tempted to just throw his life away and ride clear to Tantervale to surprise Hadiza, knowing she’d smite him with a fireball if he dared do such a thing. Samson was no coward in a fight, but he’d not risk that woman’s wrath simply because he was desperate for work.

“Fucking Markham it is, then.” He muttered to himself, rubbing his face wearily. He was none too thrilled at the prospect, but he would endure for the sake of filling the coffers.

* * *

The ride to Markham was rather uneventful, and Samson was equal parts glad for it and disappointed; glad for it as he was far too tired to deal with highwaymen, bandits, or any brigands looking to relieve him of his valuables. Disappointed because his blood was burning for a good fight, and he couldn’t figure out why.

Perhaps Hadiza was right, perhaps he was restless for the old life too.

Still, when he entered the gates of Markham, he was relieved when a light rain started, driving a majority of the people to seek shelter indoors, and making the guards laconic and less inclined to care about him as he walked his horse toward the stable near the main tavern. Once Riordan was stabled, Samson took refuge under the awning for a moment to get his bearings. Markham was an average city; larger than Hercinia, but smaller than Starkhaven. Still, it was enough that if a man wanted to get lost, he could have.

Samson only wanted a job.

_ I know I swore I wouldn’t do mercenary work, but we need the money. _

He cracked his knuckles again and went to the tavern. It was a great deal quieter than he expected, and there was a brief lull in the conversation, like too much weight on a branch. The music quieted, and eyes turned to look at him briefly. Samson said nothing, his expression schooled to uncaring calm.

After a moment, the conversation swelled again and the music along with it, a small boat riding the waves of laughter, the sound of ale tankards clanging together in arbitrary toasts, and the coquettish giggle of the local doxies looking to pick up a customer or two. One such approached him, her bodice riding scandalously low on her breasts, her cosmetics slightly garish, and she swished her skirts in such a way as to give Samson a flash of her thigh, creamy skin in stockings.  She tossed her hair, waves of black hair, her eyes a blue truer than any ocean, her lips pink and love-stung. Samson smirked.

“You’re a long way from home, ser.” Her accent was rough, as most Markham folk went, but Samson figured if anyone knew anything, the whores in the town would know.

“Indeed I am,” he said, “what’s a man gotta do to find work around here?”

“For a silver, I can give you an answer.” She said coyly. Samson reached into the purse at his belt and tossed her a copper. With startling deftness, the woman plucked it out of the air and pocketed it Maker knew where.

“What’ll this get me?” He asked her. She looked him up and down.

“A farewell.” She said curtly and let him be. Samson made his way to the bartender, a woman of middling years engaged in good natured conversation with a few men who looked to be deep in their cups. He took a vacant seat and rapped his knuckles on the counter to get the barkeep’s attention. She looked up at him, gesturing to the men to continue their revelry as she made her way to Samson.

“I know your face.” She said wryly. Samson smiled.

“Oh?” He asked. “How so? I’ve not visited Markham in some time.”

She scoffed.

“I’ve worked this tavern for twenty years, and served many who served the Inquisition. I know the Inquisitor’s bloodhound when I see him.”

Samson swallowed hard against the confused knot of his anger and pride. He ordered whatever his coppers could afford him, and tossed in a few silvers for a bed.

“Well then you heard wrong,” he said, “I’m no bloodhound. Just a man looking for honest work is all. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find any, would you?”

The barkeep, whose name was Breida, served him the cabbage stew and a pint with a reserved and wary expression. For a moment, Samson thought she might return his coins and tell him to seek lodging elsewhere, but she didn’t.

“I might.” She said, “We see enough trouble here in Markham that there’s always someone that needs to be set straight, but we’ve got the city guard for that.” She leaned against the bar, comfortable in her own domain as Samson continued to eat, realizing with each bite how many damned spices he was going to buy when he made enough money to go to the market again. The stew was terrible, but hunger was a sharp and effective seasoning, so he ate. Breida watched him, amused.

“You have got to be starving to wolf that shit down in one go.” She said and Samson looked at her over the rim of his pint as he downed the last of his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Aye,” he said, “I was. This’ll do for now, though. Now, you say you’ve a city guard, but you don’t seem too sure about them either. So certainly there’s work for a freelancer around here somewhere.”

Breida pursed her lips.

“Inquisitor finally turned you out on your ass, then?” She asked, “You desperate enough to start playing the strong arm of the law for weary tavern keeps and indebted wenches?”

Samson laughed.

“Hardly. Inquisitor is out on her own assignment, and I’m not one to sit idle. Just looking for good work is all. If you’ve got nothing for me, I’ll be on my way.” He said, and rose to leave, eager for his bed.

Breida watched him get up, and watched him go, her expression unreadable.

Samson did not look back.

* * *

The room could have been worse. As far as public rooms went, Samson was agreeable to the fact that the room was dry, had a bed, a chamberpot, and even a wash basin. There was no mirror, and so he would have to make do with merely washing his face and dealing with his beard, which would likely appear within the next few days.

As was his wont, Samson inspected the room, a trick he picked up from Hadiza’s sister, Ariadne. It was defensible enough, and had no windows so access was limited only to the door. He placed his dagger under his pillow, and  _ Redemption  _ hung from the headboard’s corner, within easy reach and draw. Thus prepared, he sat and searched his packs for his map. He’d only just begun to trace his path to Ansburg when there was a soft knock at his door.

“This room’s taken.” He groused without looking up. The doorknob jiggled once and Samson set the map aside to answer the door. He found Breida there, looking aggravated.

“Alright, so there might be some work for you after all.” She said, “Something a man your age can handle, I’m hoping.”

Samson frowned. He almost started to tell her how he’d been the head of one of the most devastating military forces that Thedas had ever seen, but simply let the indignation stand. Breida gestured impatiently for him to move. Samson stood aside as she came in, and he shut the door.

Breida glanced at his sword and the discarded map on his bed, then turned to face him.

“What do you know about the Carta?” She asked without preamble. Samson laughed.

“Enough to know they were a damned menace in Kirkwall, and pretty much anywhere those damned dwarf tunnels go. That is to say: everywhere.” He crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

Breida sighed, smoothing her skirts with weathered hands.

“About a year ago, the Bent Bow fell on hard times what with folks fleeing because of that mess with the Inquisition and the Qunari,” she explained, “and there wasn’t much in the way of business as folks opted to stay home or go and fight. Markham’s a pretty big city but there’s not much for folks who aren’t politicians, city guardsmen, or Chantry clergy.”

“Any idea when you’ll be getting to the point?” He asked. Breida frowned, but acceded to his demand.

“Well, I borrowed a bit of money from these dwarves. I knew they were trouble from the gleam in their eyes and the way they eyed my place like they were sizing up a druffalo for slaughter.” She continued. “I used the money to do repairs, give the place some real polish to get folks wanting to come in again. And it worked. Business is pretty good, but apparently the Carta have some misunderstanding about ownership.”

Samson groaned inwardly. This was more the kind of work Hawke would have done, and he wished for a moment this was Kirkwall so he could pass it along to her and her ragged bunch of friends.

“So a few nights ago,” Breida’s voice was softer than it had been downstairs, “they come in...just stroll in like they own the place, and tell me I’ve got a month to turn over ownership to them or start paying them a stipend to keep them from coming to take the place themselves.”

Samson listed off the offenses in his head. This was pretty low on the rung for a Carta operation, but not so low that they wouldn’t have people in charge of it. But that would still be tricky. The Carta was a veritable hornet’s nest: if he kicked a few asses and knocked a few heads in Markham, chances are they’d crop up in Hercinia looking for payback.

“Alright, so you want me to get rid of the Carta in this town, is that it?” He asked and Breida smiled.

“That’s impossible,” she said, “they’ve got a pretty tight hold here. What I want is for you to just…” She waved her hand, “Be the menacing ass you’re rumored to be. Carta sniffs around and finds out the Inquisitor’s bloodhound is involved, they’ll be sure to leave well enough alone. I heard the Inquisitor dealt with the Carta rather thoroughly down in the south.”

Samson almost told her he wasn’t Hadiza’s Maker damned bloodhound, but he clamped his teeth around an acidic retort.

“Alright,” he said, “so you want me to just hang around in my armor with my thumb up my arse, then? And how much will you be paying the Inquisitor’s, erm, bloodhound for his services?” He stared at her unblinking, her mouth set in a firm line. Breida raised her brows.

“Room and board are free for however long this takes,” she said, “and there might be a sovereign or two in it for you if you’re successful.”

Samson liked the sound of that. Loved it, in fact. A sovereign or two would be more than enough to fill the food stores again. Hell, he might have settled for his weight in gold; same difference.

“Well?” Breida ventured, “Sound simple enough for you?”

Samson rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully.

“Half.” He said. Breida frowned.

“Half?” She repeated.

“Half upfront,” Samson said, “and half when the job’s done. Free room and board, and all the food and ale I can stomach for the trouble.”

Breida took a deep breath.

“I’ve customers to consider, and food isn’t exactly just abundant like that.”

“Then you’d better measure your supply carefully,” Samson said without missing a beat, “and plan for the future. You want me to scare those Carta bastards into thinking I’ve got the Inquisition lined up and ready to back me if they so much as twitch a brow? Then you’d better be feeding me at the very least.”

Breida huffed.

“Fine. Done. Free room and board, free meals and ale, half upfront, and half when the job’s done. Deal?” She stuck out her hand. Samson looked down at it. For all its spotted and weathered age, there was something delicate about her hand when he took it, but her grip was as firm as any man’s.

“Deal.” He said, hoping this was all worth it.


	6. Chapter 6

Hadiza wandered into Starkhaven, wary of all who dared make eye contact, and road-weary from the ride. After receiving the shocking news that her father might have been dead before she received his letter, Hadiza sat in her rented room in a small inn tucked away from the busier avenues of the enormous city. Outside of her window, two people were arguing, with one of them sounding unerringly drunk. Hadiza didn’t hear what they argued about, only a sort of encompassing noise that she was dimly aware of as actual voices. She kept her hands busy, fiddling with the heavy signet ring her father had given her, the ruby within its center etched with the crest of House Trevelyan on its faceted face. She knew she should have gone down to eat, or at least warm her belly with mead, but instead she sat there, turning the ring over and over in her hand.

Her father was dead.

The words were heavy inside of her, clawing for purchase, desperate to convince her it was the truth. The old farmer had spoken with certainty that Bann Trevelyan was dead, killed in a horseback riding accident, and that Aja Trevelyan, his wayward daughter, had assumed control of the Trevelyan Estate until the affair was settled.

Hadiza could not believe it, and refused to dwell on it. If her father had been killed, Aja would have informed her the moment it happened. There was no weather so foul that would stop her from giving her news of that gravity. No, it had to be a vicious rumor. If her father was dead, then how could he have sent a letter asking for her aid in Tantervale?

She wished, in her infinite hindsight wisdom, that she had heeded Samson and brought him with her. He was usually so talented at taking the abstract labyrinth of her thoughts and making sense of them. Instead, Hadiza sat and stared at the heavy signet ring.

“It is a lie.” She said aloud. “A vicious lie.”

She would ride to Tantervale at first light, and she would do so as the Inquisitor as well as a daughter of House Trevelyan. She looped the chain over her head, breathing deep as the ring settled between her breasts against her skin. Then, she lay down and willed herself to sleep.

In the morning, she woke to the sound of voices, muffled through the wooden walls, and crawled out of her bed to make her way to the wash basin. There, she quickly scrubbed at her essentials, her expression disgusted that she could not afford to luxuriate in a proper bath, and dabbed a hint of almond oil between her breasts, behind her ears, and on her wrists. She fought valiantly with her hair, tugging through the snarls with a wide-tooth comb of whalebone, lamenting in quiet anguish when she saw a few strands of gray amidst the glossy jet. She could almost hear Samson’s sly remark and smiled to herself. She would not hide her age from the world, then, but she did lament the knots of hair torn from her head in an effort to manage it with only one arm.

Dressing was the hardest part.

Hadiza took her time getting into her breeches, and it took her the better part of an hour to buckle on her armor. She silently sent a blessing to Samson for adjusting the straps of her harness for her before she departed, and looped it over her head to attach her false arm, a golden gauntlet veined with blue lyrium, and powered by a large lyrium crystal embedded within. As she secured it, she siphoned off her mana well, redirecting it to power the arm. The limb came alive haltingly and jerkily, the fingers wiggling and straightening, curling and grasping, as if the limb were a newborn, until Hadiza assumed direct control and sighed, balling it into a fist and then opening it to reveal a single fireball. She snuffed it and glanced around. There was no mirror in which to examine herself, and so she merely checked the room to ensure she had all of her belongings, and left.

Not one to be bereft of a decent breakfast, Hadiza shelled out enough coin for something warm and filling, determined to at least be afforded that much. She promised herself she would eat well on this trip, even if it meant she would be camped beneath the sky for most of it for want of being able to afford a decent room. Thus fed, she left the inn, but not before penning a letter to Samson as she promised, sending it off with a courier for Hercinia. Then, gathered Nyx from the stable, paid the stable lad, and packed up to leave Starkhaven, bound for Tantervale.

If her father was not there, she would soon know, and all the better for her. Still, Hadiza rode hard, leaning forward into the wind as it whipped her hair about, giving Nyx his lead as he stretched his legs and thundered down the road. They ate up the miles, and in that time, the world fell away as only it could astride a horse. Hadiza thought only of what she would do when she reached her destination, and if her father was not dead, demand an explanation for the vicious rumor.

As Nyx powered on, and she entered wilder country, passing only hamlets and expansive farmland, Hadiza thought on how she would handle her father if he  _ were  _ alive. Whatever aid he wished of her, she knew he would do his best to extract more than she was willing to give, and he would sweeten the pot with promise of more than enough coin to get her through the year. He knew there was one thing she would never sacrifice for a fortune, and since being disinherited, Hadiza told herself everyday that she made the right decision. She would starve, struggle, and scrape before she gave up Samson. But always, in his letters, her father would ask, and always her answer would be the same: never.

Hadiza knew the bite of the cold and the hollowing fist of hunger, but she would not turn Samson out of her heart or her life. Not when both of them had sacrificed so much just to be together. In Orlais, songs were sung, embellishing the sweeping romance of what really happened. In Ferelden, songs were sung, blackening the brightness of her name, accusing her of heresy and corruption, seduced by the enemy to lead the world to war and ruin. And in Rivain, warily, Samson was welcomed as a son-in-law in House Faye.

Hadiza would trade none of it for the fortune her surname promised her.

Before long, the sun was sinking before her, burning the land in stains of gold, vermilion, and red. She would use the dying of the light to close more distance, and then she would find a place to camp. When she glanced over her shoulder, however, she saw the rain clouds in the distance, and they looked heavy with burdens.

“Damnit.” She whispered, slowing Nyx to a canter. His mouth was flecked with foam, and he chewed at his bit thoughtfully. She patted his neck.

“You’re fine.” She murmured, “Let’s find a place to make camp before that storm reaches us.”

She glanced aside. In the distance, she could see the Minanter River winding through the marshlands. She needed a cave, or at the very least an outcropping of rock in order to shelter both herself and Nyx from the rain. She turned from the road, stepping into the wilderness to search. It was also a matter of finding higher ground. A vast majority of the Marches, save for the coast, was flat marshland and forest. Hadiza swore under her breath as she saw the storm blowing closer. She could have cast a shield over herself and Nyx, but that would have required more mana, as well as a storage crystal to maintain the spell throughout the night.

She sighed. She had to keep moving, then.

She rode for what felt like hours, even as the sun sank low beneath the horizon, and the path became harder and harder to see. She had a few fae-lights left, and was determined to save them for more pressing matters. And so she activated one, and found a small cluster of bushes and a clearing, which looked to be a much used campsite for traveler’s judging by the neatness of it. Dismounting, Hadiza quickly pitched her tent, reinforcing it as the wind began to pick up. Removing Nyx’s saddle, she turned him out to graze nearby and drink from the small brook that branched from the Minanter. Knowing the storm would catch them either in the night or come the next day, Hadiza made no plans to attempt to wash her clothing, and instead ate a quick meal of millet balls and washed it down with water from her waterskin before bundling into her bedroll.

Unsurprisingly, sleep eluded her, and she tossed in her bedroll irritably, fitful and frustrated. Had she more time, she would have rode the remaining miles to Tantervale, but she knew all too well how traveling at night was the least wise thing she could have done.

“That and spending my silvers on a good breakfast but no bread for the road.” She muttered to herself as she lay staring as the gently swaying walls of her tent. The wind whistled through the bushes around her, and she could practically smell and taste the rain.

She could also hear voices;  _ human  _ voices.

Hadiza went still, straining her senses to hear over the wind.

“--sure it was her?” A voice whispered. Hadiza’s brow furrowed and she reached for her sword, easing it as quietly as she could from its sheath.

“‘Course I’m sure. Gold arm all prettied up with the dwarf crystal. Hair like a black banner, eyes like stars. Gotta hand it to that Rowan, man’s a poet when he’s angry.”

“Shhh! She’ll hear you!”

“Like hell. Girl’s fast asleep. Aside, she won’t be much of a threat soon enough.”

Hadiza slowly eased out of her bedroll and called up and ice spell in her mind, readying her false arm to cast as she crouched, preparing to spring.

“So, what’s the plan we just...bag her and drag her back?”

“Rowan said he wants her alive so that’s the plan.”

Hadiza took a deep breath and filled her lungs with anticipation...and as she exhaled, the tent flap burst open. She sprang without thinking, casting a winter’s grasp spell as she did.

“Maker’s Shitting Breath!” One of her assailants swore as the spell hit him in the chest, freezing him and bringing him up short. His companion dodged most of it, and his sword derailed from its sheath just as Hadiza slashed at him, and shrank into a crouch, rolling clear into the open air, and coming up in time to block.

“Who are you?” She demanded as the other helped his friend, who shivered and chattered his teeth. The spell did not easily wear off, and he’d be chilly for hours yet. Hadiza cast a magelight spell, only to have it fizzle out. Not only that, but her false arm’s lyrium veins and crystal dimmed, then went completely limp. She cried out in surprise and glanced at her assailants again. In the starlight, she caught the insignia of the templars on their chestplates, but their faces were obscured by helmets. Hadiza reached for her mana and found herself suppressed. Even breathing seemed harder.

“I think she guessed.” The formerly frozen companion said with a chuckle.

“Aye,” the other said, “let’s finish the job and get out ahead of the storm. He’ll be waiting.”

Hadiza narrowed her eyes. If they thought she was harmless without her magic, they were sorely mistaken, and she showed them. They engaged her, two on one, and she found, one armed but fearsome, remembering all that Samson taught her. She’d fought innumerable templars in her time, and she would not be cowed.

“Maker, she’s something else!” One of the men laughed, as Hadiza executed a series of backhanded slashes that pressed his defense hard, and kept his companion outside of her sphere of defense for fear of having his throat slashed open.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, just do it!” The companion cried as Hadiza’s locked blades with him, stepping into his guard and tripping him up. She brought her sword up to finish him off, only to feel the weight of the sky bear down on her. Her sword dropped from nerveless fingers as she crashed to her knees with a gasp. Air rushed from her lungs, making her lightheaded and dizzy, and the world spun out of focus as she collapsed and crumpled to the ground just as the rain began to fall. Hadiza shivered, but the weight never left her, and she twitched and struggled, letting out an inhuman croak, desperate for air.

And soon, she shut her eyes, and lay still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've reached a bit of a turning point, here. Where I finally get to the part that inspired this whole damned fic.


	7. Chapter 7

Samson had to admit: the job seemed easy enough on the surface, but something about how quickly Breida had agreed to his terms made him wary. He knew there’d be bullshit afoot soon enough. For now, he bided his time being the “menacing ass” Breida expected of him, scowling darkly, and looking like trouble in red and black armor. It wouldn’t be long before those damned Carta dwarves strolled in, getting wind that the Inquisitor’s bloodhound was guarding the Bent Bow, and hopefully, they’d be sent packing.

It was too much to hope that it would be as simple as all that.

The afternoon lull brought the dwarves in. Three of them. Samson saw they weren’t even making a show of hiding what and who they were. Each of them looked spry and dangerous. One carried a sword at his back, his beard thick, his eyes sharp and alert, and the other two carried daggers, their hoods pulled low, obscuring their eyes, but doing nothing to hide their slick smiles. Samson had learned the hard way never to judge a dwarf’s fighting prowess by their stature. The bastards were short, and had to pedal twice as a fast to cover more ground, but they were powerful and quick, attributes belied by their stature and the fact that surface dwellers were quick to underestimate them.

Samson shifted his weight to his right leg, sliding his left back to prepare.  _ Redemption’s  _ pommel was in easy reach in a quick draw over his left shoulder. His dagger was also within easy reach in a sheath at his belt on his left him. He could feel the tension from Breida behind the bar she was wiping down, and a hush fell over the patrons, even more pronounced than the lull his presence had caused upon his arrival days prior.

“Breida,” the lead dwarf said in an open and casual manner, smiling broadly, showing even white teeth, “how wonderful to see you’re in good health!”

Breida licked her lips.

“And unfortunate to see you at all, Bronson.” She said tartly. Bronson laughed, jowls quivering under his black beard, eyes sharper than a hawk’s. Samson disliked the dwarf already. Too damned friendly for someone who was deadset on claiming this space as Carta territory.

“Now, now, don’t be like that, ole girl,” Bronson said good-naturedly, “after all I’ve done to help you? Is this how you treat a friend?”

“We ain’t friends.” Breida retorted. “And I borrowed money, and paid you back in full. I’d say we’re just about square.”

Sounded legitimate to Samson. He was beginning to wonder how legitimate as she’d failed to mention she’d repaid any debts.

Bronson hauled himself into a barstool, bringing him near eye level with Breida.

“I think not,” he said, wagging a finger at her like he was addressing an errant child. “I’d say you’re neglecting the part of your contract that says we own this place. And you.”

Samson turned, then, keeping the other two dwarves within his line of sight as he addressed Bronson.

“And I’m thinking you should leave.” He said evenly. “Unless you plan on being a paying customer.”

Bronson stared at Samson, that bland smile never leaving his face but Samson saw his eyes blaze, like a predator that had found worthy prey. Samson felt his blood go giddy with the prospect of a fight.

“Breida, dear, who’s this? And why is he speaking to me?” Bronson asked, not looking at Breida. Samson expected her to retort, to brag about who he was, list off his deeds and strike some damned fear into this dwarf, but he saw her shrink like a flower wilting in the sun. It was the one time Samson wished his bloody reputation preceded him. Unfortunately, it didn’t.

“Breida,” Bronson said, “I do believe I asked a question.”

“He’s the new guard I hired.” Breida said in a dull voice. Bronson looked at her then, and then laughed. It was uproarious and mocking laughter, and it set Samson’s teeth on edge.

“Oh you’ve got to be shitting me!” He laughed, “Hired? You can barely afford to pay  _ us _ . How much did she promise you, freelancer?” Bronson turned back to Samson. “A few sovereigns? No doubt she would have finessed them from us somehow. Maker’s Balls she swindled you into protecting her, and is using our money to do it!”

Samson felt his blood go hot with embarrassment. When he thought of it, it made sense. But the Carta wasn’t exactly known for it’s honest and upstanding members, either. Samson erred on the side of caution and justice, and sucked his teeth rudely.

“What she promised is of no concern to you,” he said nastily, “and if you aren’t planning on paying for anything, I’d suggest you and your shit-for-brains friends pack out so that a paying customer  _ can _ .” It felt good to get his anger out, felt good to tell  _ someone  _ in this wretched world to fuck off for once. Most importantly, it felt good to be doing a damned job. Bronson’s smile faded, leaving only the naked danger Samson had seen in him earlier. Bronson hopped down from the barstool, and Samson saw patrons beginning to leave as discreetly as they could, sensing the oncoming violence as Samson squared off with the dwarves.

“You seem like a troublemaker, freelancer,” Bronson said, “and normally I’m all for troublemakers. Can never have too many of those in the world. But I’m just not in the mood for any nugshit to day, you understand? Breida’s weaved herself a real shit of a web, and you’re caught in it. And for that, I’m sorry. But for what happens next, I’m not.”

And all hell broke loose.

Samson knew the sound of a throwing dagger whirring through the air, and  _ Redemption  _ rang clear of its sheath in time to turn it aside so that it clattered harmlessly on the bar, skidding and sliding to the floor. Bronson was already on the move and Samson angled his sword to counter the attacks, a flurry in which each strike packed more strength than he previously guessed. His armor did a fine job in absorbing the blows, and he danced, switching sides easily as he fended off three dwarves at once, each brandishing the wicked spires of silverite blades. One of the hooded pair of dwarves got too close, and Samson pried an opening, scoring a slash along the dwarf’s weaker arm. The smell of burnt cloth and sizzling flesh filled the tavern as the dwarf stumbled back with a curse.  _ Redemption’s  _ runes glowed in response, and Samson could have sworn the blade was bloodthirsty.

That was well and good, but it did little to slow Bronson and the other dwarf.

Maker, they were quick, and it was in those moments, each one stretched and twisted into miniature eternities, that Samson felt his age catch up to him. The pain in his right hip returned, sharp and nettling, and he nearly buckled from it, gritting his teeth against the intrusion. Bronson was a flurry of silver arcs, and Samson had no choice but to swing his blade in a hard arc, splitting a table in two, and breaking Bronson’s flow of attack. He heard Breida’s swear as he came around, pressing beyond the pain in his hip, and took off the second dwarf’s hand, listening with grim satisfaction as the dwarf wailed in pain as his severed hand fell to the floor, gripping a dagger.

He completed the turn by bringing the point of his blade to Bronson’s throat.

“Look,” he said, his voice slightly winded, sweat shining on his brow, “I’m not one for negotiation or diplomacy, but the lady hired me for a reason and I mean to keep my word.”

Bronson glared defiantly down the runed length of  _ Redemption _ , and Samson stared back.

“Go ahead, then.” He said, amusement coloring his voice, “Kill us, then. That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

Breida looked between Samson and Bronson, and for a moment Samson considered it. It would have been easy and damn near bloodless, cutting the smug dwarf’s throat. And it would keep him from running back to whoever held his leash and bringing more hired help later. Still, if he  _ didn’t  _ return at all, then the Carta would still investigate.

Samson knew he couldn’t handle them by himself. He needed Hadiza, and at the very least, both of her sisters.

“You and your friends go back and tell your masters the Bent Bow is off-limits,” Samson said evenly, “or there’ll be a lot more pain waiting for you and yours.”

Bronson spat contemptuously to his left but he knew the fight was lost. His dwarf companions left, with one of them taking the severed hand and stumbling out of the inn. Bronson backed away slowly, his smile returning.

“I like you, freelancer,” he said, “we’ll dance again some other time.”

Samson watched him go, scowling. Only when the tension the dwarves brought with them had fled the room did he sheath his sword and look around. Breida stared at him with grim respect.

“You should have killed them.” She said. Samson began helping her clean up the mess his skirmish had made.

“Not what you paid me for, miss.” He replied, “I wasn’t even planning to fight them, but there’s not much in the way of choices where the Carta is concerned. Aside, had I killed them, they’d just send more to investigate, more nastier than that bunch.”

Breida hesitated.

“You going to tell me the truth, now? Or you going to wait until the Carta decides to regroup and come back?” Samson asked. Breida frowned.

“I paid back my debt!” She snapped. “I owe them nothing.”

Samson fixed her with an arch look, saying nothing in response. Breida swore under her breath.

“Alright,” she said, “so I was tad dishonest about what went down, but what do you care? You’re still getting paid.”

“With money fleeced from the Carta?” Samson scoffed, “I don’t think so. Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on here since I’ve been mixed up in your business anyway.”

Breida motioned for him to sit down while she went to the door and locked it, and closed the curtains on the windows. She came back to her place behind the bar, and offered Samson a drink, which he readily accepted. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

“I signed a contract and failed to read the fine print.” Breida said simply. Samson said nothing.

“I’ve been using the Bow as collateral until I can finish paying off my debt,” she continued, “but the contract states if I don’t pay it off in time, I’m going to lose the Bow to the Carta and they’ll turn it into another one of their nugshit fronts for whatever lyrium smuggling and weapons dealing they do. I’m just not interested in seeing them gain yet another fucking thing in this town.”

Samson sighed and rubbed his temples. He’d well and truly stepped in the shit this time around.

“So the one month they gave you wasn’t for you to decide, then,” he surmised, “it was a deadline for you to pay or lose. And let me guess: they charged interest so you owe more than you borrowed.”

Breida sipped her beer with a tight smile.

“Got it in one.” She said, “But I figured if they see that parts of the Inquisition are still around and willing to help, they’d back off. Guess that wasn’t the case, huh?”

“No,” Samson said curtly, “it wasn’t. I didn’t sign up to be some hired thug you use to scare off the Carta because you couldn’t be arsed to avoid getting involved with them.” He watched as Breida poured him another drink, which he downed liberally.

“I was hard up for money to keep this place open,” she snapped, “and there wasn’t a lender in town willing to risk it when the sky was blown open and the Qunari were on the march. No, they withheld their coins and grabbed their ankles and waited for the storm to pass. But the Carta were there when no one else was.”

Samson frowned. “You would have been safer doing anything but getting mixed up with their lot. But what’s done is done, and there’s nothing else for it.”“So what do you plan to do?” She asked. Samson debated the answer by drinking deep. He could leave with whatever money she paid him and be home in two days’ time. He could have easily left her to her fate. It wasn’t his business anyway, and even when he’d been begging in the streets in Kirkwall, or taking up mercenary work, he’d given the Carta a wide enough berth so as not to ever fall within their interests. Maiming one of their own, and threatening them had been a mistake, but killing them would have brought even worse blowback.

He could almost hear Hadiza’s plaintive voice insisting that they **had** to do something.

“Maker fuck it all…” He grumbled under his breath and set down his pint. “For fuck’s sake what have you turned me into?”

Breida frowned, unsure of how to answer.

“Alright.” Samson said finally, rubbing his face in annoyance, “Alright! I’ll help you oust them from the place, but I’m going to need help. I’ve got to ride to Ostwick to get what I need.”

“How long will that take?” Breida asked and Samson thought for a moment of the myriad of ways the conversation could go.

“No more than a day or two. Think you can mind yourself until I get back?”

Breida nodded. As Samson got up to return to his room, she took his arm, mindful of the spiked vambrace. He glanced at her sharply for a moment, but held.

“Thank you, Samson.” She said, “Truly. If you hadn’t come along when you did I don’t know how I could have stopped them. I’m a decent enough archer but I’ve never had to kill anyone.”

Samson snorted. “Well maybe next time those Carta cocksuckers find themselves in here you can put an arrow right in the bearded little shit’s cheek. Won’t kill him, but it’ll hurt like hell.”

Breida smiled. “Right.” She hesitated. “So the Inquisitor didn’t turn you out. Why isn’t she with you?”

Samson took his arm away.

“Not your concern, ma’am.” Was all he said and went to his room.

* * *

The journey to Ostwick was easier than expected, but longer than he anticipated. Samson set out the following morning just before first light. It would be easy to skirt the Virmark Mountains toward Hellene Pass where it would take him to the coastal city’s northern entrance. Thus far, his plan to venture out and do a quick job was becoming increasingly more complex.

The Carta! Of all the damned groups he had to cross it had to be the one with a network so extensive no one could completely map it. He would have rather taken his chances with the Antivan Crows. At least he knew what to expect from them. But the Carta was a beast of a thousand throats and he had no interest in finding himself in any of its gullets.

That was why he needed the Reaver.

Samson had fought a great many foes in his time, and he maintained that had Hadiza not been present, Aja would have split his skull at the Well of Sorrows. And if not Aja, Ariadne would have pinned him full of arrows. It was Hadiza’s presence that stayed everyone’s hands. He found himself thinking with a strange fondness of that moment when he could see his reflection in her blade at his throat, and he looked up balefully into a pair of eyes like stars, in a face that had anyone asked, he could not have said he would come to love.

Life was strange, and even stranger was when he found himself being followed.

When he made camp that evening, he feigned sleep, and listened as his tail emerged into the firelight.

“You’ve got an interesting way of making an entrance, Ghost.” He said irritably. “How long have you been following me?”

Ariadne sat across from him in front of the fire, but only have in its circle of light. The other half was lost in shadow. He wondered what kind of material she wore that made her appear as if she were a living darkness, able to vanish into the shadows on a whim by simply moving.

“Since you caused that ruckus in Markham.” She said in her quiet voice, yet it resonated and he sat up as she moved with liquid grace to tend to the logs.

“You’re going to need my help.” She said, “I’m on assignment in Markham, and unfortunately that presents a problem for you.”

Samson’s lip curled. “Let me guess, the Carta hired you.”

Ariadne smiled thinly. “Even so. However, while I cannot physically aid you, I’m going to venture a guess that you’re enlisting Aja’s help.”

“Aye.” Samson said. Ariadne steepled her fingers.

“Well, then. While I cannot jeopardize my assignment with the Carta, I can certainly not be held accountable if I let slip the location of their primary base of operations in Markham, can I?”

Samson grinned. “I suppose not. Anyone in the gang could have leaked that, eh?”

Ariadne tilted her head.

“Well and so.” She said, “But I will say this: do not underestimate Bronson. He toyed with you, but he is not some low-rung thug on the ladder. He’s got enough connections within to come back in force. You are right to seek Aja out.”

“I figured as much.” Samson muttered. “You wouldn’t happen to know if the Bann is there at present?”

“He’s there.” Ariadne said, barely hiding her contempt, “But Aja has the run of the grounds most of the time, so you are safe from his barbs for now. But that’s not why you asked, is it?”

“No,” Samson replied, “it’s not.”

They sat in silence for a while longer. Ariadne shrugged in an apparently bored expression.

“Anything else before you vanish into thin air?” Samson asked. Ariadne said nothing even as he bent forward to poke at the logs on the fire. When he looked up, Ariadne was no longer there, but there was a single sheaf of paper where she’d been sitting, and he heard the distant sound of hoofbeats in the night, heading northeast back toward Markham. He smiled, and looked at the paper. It was a hastily sketched outline of the city, and the location of the Carta’s headquarters. He grinned and went back to his bedroll.

The following morning, Samson was off toward Ostwick, and by mid afternoon, he descended from Hellene Pass, Ostwick’s pristine dual walls shimmering in view, and beyond it the sea glittered. Ostwick was often considered the Jewel of the Eastern Coasts, known for its lovely blend of Tevene and Rivaini architecture, with some topped buildings and minarets where the Chantry bells hung. As he was admitted into the city, he was once again taken aback by how simultaneously old and new it felt. 

But it did not feel like home.

Samson wagered Ostwick would never feel like home to him, and for once he didn’t care. Everywhere in the city felt...reserved. There was a hushed piety to it that was at once welcoming and foreboding. School children ran along the road, trailing after a Chantry sister who turned to scold them and keep them in line. Samson felt something within him stir like old coals as a blacksmith worked at his forge, shaping steel with an expert hand. He was briefly reminded of Maddox, and breathed deep to keep the memories at bay.

It was a long ride to House Trevelyan’s ancestral estate, which he took his time getting to, stopping to pay a silver to a Rivaini food vendor for a batch of  _ suya _ , a snack of fried druffalo meat seasoned with spices, onions, peppers, and sea salt. He paid another silver for a bottle of  _ zoborodo _ , a refreshing drink made by boiling hibiscus blossoms, mixing it with fresh ginger, and sugar. It was generally served chilled, but the vendor could not afford such. Still, Samson was grateful for it and made his way through Ostwick’s wide streets with a satisfied curve to his mouth. He noted how empty Ostwick felt, as if there were less people than he remembered, or perhaps it was merely the hour of the day, he could not be sure. All too soon, however, he reached the Trevelyan Estate. It too was quiet, and it was too much to hope that Aja was home.

He rode up the winding path to the top of the hill where the estate sat. Even from a distance he could tell that massive repairs and restoration had been done, although it had been two years since he’d last seen it. The fountain, which had been dead and overrun with weeds during his last visit, was restored to its full ostentatious glory. The rearing Friesian that was the very symbol of House Trevelyan, crowned it, water spouting from its open mouth to cascade into each pool. Samson marveled at what it cost Trevelyan simply to pay for the dwarven architecture that went into the system.

The manor itself was pristine, with the creamy walls restored and cleared of grime, the elegant embellishments repaired where they were once rotted and crumbling, and the windows washed and gleaming in the afternoon sun. The roundabout was lined with fresh spring blooms, and carefully pruned peach trees lined a path leading to the gardens, which he could see were already in the first nascent blooms of spring. Ivy crawled along the walls, artfully pruned to help the house retain its ancient feel, and Samson momentarily forgot why he was there.

He’d forgotten what Hadiza had given up to become his wife.

Hoofbeats drew him away from the house’s restored beauty and he turned to see Aja thundering around the corner on her own Friesian, a mount aptly named Bucephalus if he recalled, whom she reined to a sliding stop. Moments later, several other mounted men joined her, their mounts lathered and panting, the riders looking no better themselves. Aja let out a whoop of victory, circling around to give Bucephelus his due.

“I told you! Never race against a Trevelyan. Pay up, lads.” She crowed, and rode by with her hand out. Each man--there were seven all told--dropped a small purse of coin into her waiting hand, and she secured them in one of her saddlebags, smug and superior, the sun catching on the gold clasps around the long ropes of her hair. She finally came around to Samson, eyeing Riordan with tacit approval.

“Raleigh Samson, as I live and breathe.” She said with a laugh. “What brings you to my humble abode? And without my sister to boot?”

Samson frowned at the mention of Hadiza and shook his head.

“Is your father home?” He asked without preamble. Aja hesitated and glanced back to her companions.

“Change of plan, boys. Looks like you’re back on guard duty. I’ll have to give you lads another go at me, maybe you can earn back all this coin you so foolishly threw away, eh?”

The men grumbled about it, but they turned their mounts and trotted back to the stables. Aja watched them go, her eyes bright with mirth before she turned back to Samson.

“Must be bad if you’re looking for Eddie, eh?” She asked him. Samson sighed.

“I think Hadiza is in trouble.” He said simply. Aja laughed.

“When is Hadiza not in trouble? She’s the Inquisitor, Samson. Andraste’s Arse, man, what has she gotten herself into this time?”

Samson hesitated and remained silent. Aja sighed.

“Alright, fine. We’ll go see if father is sober enough to handle this conversation. Then we’ll see if your charger can take Bucephalus in a race.”

Samson took one look at Aja’s hellion stallion and decided against it. He knew a losing bet when he saw one. Together they took their mounts to the stable hands and made their way into the estate proper. Even the inside was polished and renewed, and Samson noted that much of the Chantry decor had been scaled back in favor of a more elegant and non-religious motif. The soft arched doorways and convex ceilings that Ostwick was known for were prevalent, as well as the calligraphic script that echoed of House Trevelyan’s Rivaini roots, coupled with the opulence of its Orlesian origins. Samson remembered Rivain fondly, and surprised himself.

“So,” Aja said, “how bad is it?”

Samson sighed.

“A week and more ago, Hadiza received a letter from a courier, supposedly from the Bann, asking her for aid in Tantervale. I wager she’s there by now, and would have left word or sent it from Starkhaven. But last night, Ariadne told me Bann Trevelyan was here in Ostwick.”

Aja frowned.

“Tantervale? The place where the Chantry has the run of everything without question? That sounds like father, but he’d never ask Hadiza for help. He swore it the day he saw you two were married, remember?”

Samson had not forgotten. Hadiza was so brave that day, absorbing the daggers of her father’s contemptuous words with all the grace and dignity of her Chantry-sanctioned title. And when he was done, she had asked him if he was finished and left Ostwick, possibly for good, Samson had thought at the time.

“Well whoever sent that letter wants Hadiza in Tantervale for a reason.” He said grimly, “And I had a bad feeling from the moment I read it that something was insincere about the whole thing. It’s not unlike the Bann to manipulate Hadiza into doing what he wants, so I thought nothing of it. But--”

“But you suspected anyway,” Bann Trevelyan said from the top of the stairs, “that I would put my eldest daughter, one of the most prominent figures in recent memory, in grave danger, because I hate mages that much, yes?”

Samson stared up at the Bann, a scowl darkening his face. The Bann descended the staircase proudly and arrogantly, and Samson saw no sign of the drunken stupor Aja had alluded to. He looked as clear in mind and sounded clearer in speech.

“I’ve seen people do worse for far less.” Samson said evenly. “I wouldn’t put it past you to put Hadiza’s life in danger just to teach her what you think of her.”

Aja pursed her lips.

“Well, you gentleman seem to be off to a fantastic start in helping to get my sister out of whatever pit trap she’s fallen into! I’ll leave you two to it.”

“Not so fast, Aja,” Samson said, “I came to see you too.”

Aja raised a brow.

“Unless the trouble Hadiza is in has scales, wings, and shrieks fire, I can’t imagine why you can’t handle this issue on your own.” She said wryly.

“Well, there’s a matter in Markham that I need your help on, if you’re up to it.” He said, smirking. Aja fixed him with an arch look, expectant of more information.

Bann Trevelyan cleared his throat.

“If my daughter has tangled herself up in some dark business on account of her failure to recognize a genuine letter penned by my own hand and sealed with my signet, then it is hardly my fault, now is it?” He demanded. Samson scowled again.

“No, but since it’s your name this imposter is using, I figured you’d get involved on the principle of pride. Can’t have someone out there blaming you for anything that happens to her, right?”

Bann Trevelyan’s dark face contorted into its own scowl, matching Samson’s as he scoffed.

“She’s Trevelyan in name only, and since marrying you, not even that.”

Samson said nothing.

“Do you happen to have this letter with you?” Bann Trevelyan asked after a moment, pride giving way to curiosity. Samson retrieved the letter from his pack, handing it over. Bann Trevelyan motioned for the two of them to follow him to his study. Like the rest of the house, it too had been restored. Maps of various parts of Thedas lined the wall, with a full map of Thedas both contour and political behind the desk. A wall was dedicated to the cabinet of scroll shelves, with the tags hanging in stillness. It was exactly as Samson remembered it, but held no fond or tender memories.

“This is impossible.” Bann Trevelyan said under his breath. He reached into his desk drawer to withdraw what looked to be a lens which he used to examine the seal on the letter.

“Well,” he said, “I stand corrected. This seal is genuine. But how?”

Aja looked more amused than worried, and made a gesture of exaggerated shock.

“How could you, Bann Trevelyan, not fathom that you have enemies now that your daughter is...how did you say? ‘The most prominent figure in recent memory’, I believe?” She asked, placing her hand over her heart. “How could anyone have foreseen someone eventually using the Trevelyan name being used against the Inquisitor, who is herself a Trevelyan...in name only?”

Samson and Bann Trevelyan stared at Aja, who was posed dramatically in one of the chairs, her hand on her forehead, head tipped back in mock woe.

“Are you quite finished?” Edward asked. “Between you and Hadiza there is no shortage of theatrics in this family.” Aja got up from her chair, looking smug.

“Aunt Magdalene would beg to differ.” She said and Edward pointedly ignored her.

“Samson,” he said the name as if he were being forced to eat somewhat inedible and unpleasant, “you said she was bound for Tantervale. I assume she would have stopped in Starkhaven ere she continued her journey. It’s two week’s ride to Tantervale from Hercinia, and it is still another day or so before she’s due to reach it. If she stopped in Starkhaven, that is where your search should begin.”

Samson said nothing. Bann Trevelyan stared at him.

“Not in a rush to save your beloved from imminent danger? I thought that was the stuff you foolish knights prided yourselves on. Rescuing damsels in distress, and then marrying them without the blessings of their parents.”

Samson sighed.

“I’ve business in Markham to finish, but this takes priority. And I’m not going alone.”

Bann Trevelyan glanced at Aja.

“No,” he said, “I imagine you’d need her help in this matter. Well, I wish you the best. Give Hadiza my regards.”

Samson frowned. “No. I meant you’re coming along for this ride too, Bann Trevelyan. I imagine you want to get to the bottom of whoever managed to forge your handwriting and seal so flawlessly.”

Edward frowned.

“I’ve ways of determining that without galavanting about the countryside like some outlaw.” He snapped and Samson’s dagger was out and through the letter so fast, Edward could scarce see it. The dagger was jeweled, the pommel set in the Ostian style, but the blade was silverite and sharp, pinning the letter to the desk and embedding in the rich wood.

“I have it on good authority that you and my wayward daughter are short on coin,” Edward said tightly, “and I know for a fact that you’ve not a silver to your own common name, Raleigh Samson. And definitely not enough to repair the damage you’ve so callously inflicted on my desk.”

Samson shrugged.

“Be that as it may, you’re still coming on this trip, and when all our problems are settled, you can send the bill to my place in Hercinia. I’m sure the coffers will be full by then. For now, get packing and alert your seneschal that you’re going to be...away on business.”

Bann Trevelyan’s mouth opened and shut, and yet no sound came out. Aja let out a shockingly derisive laugh.

“Maker! I don’t think anyone’s gotten him to shut up since mother was alive.” She said. “Well done, Samson. Well done, indeed.”


	8. Chapter 8

The smell of candle wax woke her.

Hadiza opened her eyes first without moving, and when her vision focused, she found herself sitting in a nigh impenetrable darkness beaten back only by the light of a single candle burning on a table on the other side of the room. She moved to get up, and felt the heavy weight of a manacle on her wrist, and manacles on her ankles. She touched herself, and found that she had been stripped of her armor, weapons, and gauntlet. She was clad in little more than a potato sack with a hole for her head and arms.

Swallowing hard, she reached for her mana, knowing deep down she would find it barred from her. Wherever she was, there were templars about, or the very room was ensorceled to suppress magic.

Feeling along the stone wall at her back, she carefully made her way around the room, counting her paces, and sketching the shape in her mind. She was in a circular chamber, then. She crossed the room, found that her chains ran through loops in the stone and only allowed her to stop just short of the center.

Then, she looked up.

High above, too high for he to even considering to make a climb, was the opening to the chamber, covered by a grate. She could just make out the curve of one of the moons along the edge. Hadiza tried to beat back her despair with hope that her captives were more careless in their interrogation and torture than they were with ensuring she was utterly trapped. She continued staring up at the grating, wishing she could climb to at least ‘smell’ the weather and determine where she’d been taken.

The heavy bolt to the door slid to the unlock position, and Hadiza backed away to the farthest curve of the wall. The wooden beam was moved and the door was pulled open. Hadiza stood, readying herself. Without her magic or weapons, she had only one arm and her legs, but she would not be defeated a second time.

“It’s so very nice to finally meet the Inquisitor,” her captor said, voice resonant and lilted with an accent she could not quite place, “although I imagined our meeting would be far different.”

Hadiza lifted her chin.

“And who are you, exactly?” She asked imperiously, “Not some disgruntled Carta looking to make a name for yourself, I hope. I’d hate to have to level this place when I leave.”

Her captor laughed and stepped into the light. Hadiza suppressed her cry of surprised. The glow of the candlelight cast her captor in a garish display of reddish and orange hues. His face was twisted into a sneer, due in no small part to the red lyrium crystal growth protruding from it. He wore armor of gleaming black, a red sword emblazoned on the chestplate. Hadiza knew who he was--or rather,  _ what _ .

“And so your memory has been sufficiently jogged,” he said, “I trust you know what comes next, then?”

Hadiza snorted.

“You kill me, I imagine. Or torture me and then kill me. Possibly torture me  _ as  _ you’re killing me. It really all depends on the type of crazy I’m dealing with. Why don’t you help me out?”

He laughed. “You’re cheeky. Then again, I expected no less from one who made friends of that thief of a merchant surface dwarf. In any case, your death is not required as of yet. There’s one last purpose you may yet serve.”

Hadiza sighed.

“Well, as long as you’re keeping me alive, can you at least provide me with...better lighting?”

He snuffed the candle in response, leaving only the soft and eerie glow of the red lyrium growths in his body and armor. Without another word, he left, and Hadiza was remanded to the darkness. She sat where she’d woken up, trying her best to get comfortable, and thankful for Varric’s teachings rubbing off on her that she could use her wit to mask her abject terror.

She prayed Samson received no word from her and aimed to investigate. She prayed he went to Aja and Ariadne for help. Most of all, she prayed that her captor never came to the chamber again.

* * *

Bann Trevelyan had not ventured into the wild since he was a young spry lad in his early twenties, but his adventuring youth served him in good stead even now. While the riding for hours on end were less strenuous, the climb into Hellene Pass was...less than pleasant.

Between Riordan, Bucephalus, and Nero, a majority of their supplies consisted of ensuring the horses remained fed, watered, and in good health, while the rest of their packs were laden with food, and a few things Bann Trevelyan knew would fetch a fair price in Starkhaven.

But before that, Samson took them to Markham.

It was strange, but he felt pleasant with Aja at his side, knowing he had a strong sword arm to guard his back for what was to come. Of course, when he briefed her on the situation, she as all too eager to join in.

“It’s no small wonder you didn’t make it in the templar order,” Edward drawled, “you’re as bloodthirsty as a common raider.”

Aja tossed her long locks of hair over one shoulder and bestowed her father with a toothy grin, showing off her gold-capped canines which he scoffed at in disgust.

“Well, not a common raider, no,” she said, “but I won’t deny the bloodthirsty bit. Aside, I hear tell you were a bit of a scrapper in your heyday too, father. Or was mother lying?”

Samson was surprised when Edward had no sharp retort, and instead, seemed to soften at the edges, thinking of his late wife--Hadiza and Aja’s mother.

“No, I was passing fair with a sword,” he said, amused at whatever memory his wife’s mention evoked, “but  _ she  _ was a virtuoso. Could cut down three men before I could scarce blink an eye. A damned shame her family never took advantage of her skill. They’re all obsessed with their ‘magical bloodline’ up there.”

On that, Samson could not disagree. House Faye was an ancient noble line in Rivain, one that cultivated potent and powerful mages, seers, and medicinal men and women. Their arcane birthright had bypassed Edward’s wife, and fallen to Hadiza. It made Samson wonder if Maribasse’s misdeed had directly affected that outcome. Perhaps her lack of magic was her punishment for betraying her sister to the Chantry.

If that were so, Samson could only wonder what punishment he would face for his own sins. As yet, life had been...fairly easy since the Inquisition disbanded. It gave him cause to worry that any moment, life would take it all away from him. He remembered that Hadiza was in danger, and steeled his resolve.

The Bent Bow was fairly empty when they arrived and stabled their mounts, and Breida was serving a lone patron at the bar when she saw Samson arrive with Aja and Edward in tow.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.” She said, smiling with obvious relief.

“I try to be a man of my word,” Samson replied, “and I’ve brought help. We’ll make plans to take care of your problem, and then we’ll be on our way.

Breida’s brow furrowed, perplexed, but she nodded. Edward glanced around the inn and tavern with a look of obvious disgust.

“Maker but this place is rustic, isn’t it?” He asked. “Don’t tell me you actually mean for us to  _ lodge  _ here for the duration of this foolish endeavor?”

Aja clapped her father on the shoulder with a grin.

“Oh come on, now,” she teased, “this place isn’t so bad. It’s dry, warm, and clean...ish. I’m sure you’re only likely to catch scabies at best.”

“You say that as if it is some small thing to catch such a disgusting pestilence.” Edward said with dignified offense. He smoothed his waistcoat, and made ready to pay for the room. Breida, Samson, and Aja’s eyes went wide when he dropped a single sovereign on the table.

“I suppose this will be enough to cover the rent of your...best rooms,” he sniffed, “and whatever passes for food in such a place.”

Breida said nothing, she simply stared at the sovereign gleaming like a star on the rude wood of the bar’s counter.

“Father, isn’t that a bit much for our stay?” Aja asked, breaking the spell that only Edward seemed immune to. Edward frowned.

“Nonsense, Aja, it’s just one sovereign. Surely that’s enough to cover us for a few nights at least?” He dropped another sovereign onto the table. “For your trouble, lady. If you would please have someone down to fetch my things it would be most appreciated.”

Breida swallowed. For two sovereigns she would haul this fancy lord’s laundry everyday for a week or more if he’d asked. As it stood, Samson and Aja helped transition them to their respective rooms, with Bann Trevelyan giving out instructions as to how he liked his breakfast, afternoon tea, lunch, supper, dinner, and nightcap. Samson and Aja exchanged amused and exasperated glances while Breida shot them questioning looks wondering if the man was serious.

“He’s quite serious, I’m afraid,” Samson said, still amused, “the man is used to a certain lifestyle.”

Breida was serving him a drink when she laughed.

“Well, he’s going to be sorely disappointed when I tell him we neither have nor serve Nevarran coffee. Hell, I don’t even think we have any breakfast meals. But I make a mean vegetable soup, and the baker’s sweet on me so I get a decent batch of bread in the mornings.”

Samson smiled, raising his pint in a toast. Breida’s cheeks colored visibly.

“So you mean to do it, then?” Breida asked, “You and your companions are going to destroy the Carta’s base in this town?”

Samson took a long pull from his pint, licking his lips thoughtfully before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That’s the long and short of it,” he replied, “but I’ll tell you this: their retaliation is going to be ugly when the other branches get wind of what happens. It’ll take them some time to regroup, but when they do they’re going to come down harder and nastier. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

Breida laughed. “I should be asking you that. Are you ready? You’re the one about to lead an assault on the Carta base.”

Samson grinned.

“I’ve survived worse.” Was all he said, but something in his tone and face chilled Breida’s blood, and she let the matter stand. For a while, Samson drank in silence, and when he was finished, Breida collected his pint, her fingertips brushing over his hand as she did. Samson thought nothing of it, until she opened her mouth to speak.

“You know, you’re a better man than the songs and stories say about you.” She said. “I expected you to be far meaner, and at least bitterer. But you’re not so bad at all.”

Samson smiled.

“I’m a bad man, Breida,” he said, “make no mistake about that. The worst, in fact. But I’m working on it.”

She eyed him warily.

“And killing an entire sector of the Carta is working on it?” She asked dryly. Samson laughed.

“Andraste’s Tits, no. Well, not entirely, but it’s a start. If I’m a better man I owe it to the woman who gave me a chance to be.” He shrugged. “I’m only helping you because I know she’d want me to do this.”

“You still haven’t told me why you aren’t together. From the stories, you two are inseperable.”

Samson’s smile faded.

“No, we’re not. She’s got her own life, and I’m trying to create mine. Why do you want to know about her so badly? I’ll tell you this: the songs and stories won’t do her justice in the same way they don’t really paint an accurate picture of me.”

Breida laughed.

“True enough. It’s just...the story gives some of us around here some hope.”

Samson raised his brows in a silent question.

“Hope that things can and will change if we work at it. It’s why I’m so dedicated to this place, Samson. This place has served as a safe haven for many, and a place to relax and be honest and unwind for many more.”

“That why whores are allowed to hawk their wares at me as soon as I walk in the door?” He asked and Breida frowned.

“I’ve an agreement with the Velveteen that their girls are allowed to market here so long as they’re discreet. They’re nice enough, and the Velveteen and the Bow share a customer base, so it’s only natural.”

Samson nodded.

“And if the Carta takes over, you stand to lose all of this.” He said. Breida nodded.

“That’s why I wanted your help specifically, Samson. You’ve ties to the Inquisition. If anyone could solve this problem, it’s you and yours. And...and I’ll pay your rich lord the sovereigns back, promise.”

Samson shook his head.

“Don’t worry, he won’t miss them. Trust me. Keep those sovereigns. You need them more than he does.”

“Thanks.” Breida said, “I was beginning to imagine all the dresses and the like I could buy with that much coin.”

Samson smiled.

“Could think of using it to hire actual guards to protect this place.” He suggested. Breida scratched her head thoughtfully, stretching.

“You know? You’ve the right of it. That’s likely what I’ll do when this whole messy business is over. In the meantime, I’ll keep to our original agreement until the job’s done.” She held out her hand and Samson took it, shaking it firmly.

“Deal.”

* * *

Hadiza was permitted to mark the passage of time only by the sky above the grate that passed as her ceiling. She had pretty good visibility by day, with the sunlight pouring down and dimming toward the base of her prison. By night, she was afforded a single candle. Her meals were just enough that she could not starve, and she had not yet reached the desperation she needed to consider suicide.

The fact that she considered that a possibility unnerved her.

_ Alright, so you’re dealing with templars.  _ She thought to herself.  _ You’ve dealt with plenty. Killed plenty. All you need is an opening...and a key for these damned chains. _

Hadiza sat down to think, wondering where her captor was, and what they planned that they needed her alive. Being on the verge of hungry made her unable to focus, and having her mana suppressed was making it difficult to breathe deeply and clearly. Everything felt dimmer, her senses seemed to be trapped on the other side of a wall, and her body felt bruised and tender. Already, the skin around her wrists and ankles were raw from the manacles rubbing against them.

She marked how many days passed since she first woke up: three.

By now, her father or Samson will have realized she had not made it to Tantervale. If her father was alive, that is. But she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if Samson sensed anything amiss, he would come find her, and he would bring hell with him. It was what he did best.

The door unlocked, and in stepped her captor, the Red Templar she did not recognize.

“How are the accommodations, Inquisitor? Familiar, I hope.” He said, making his way toward her. Hadiza knew that to approach her with that much confidence that there was no possible way he viewed her as a threat. Not with no access to magic or weapons.

“Is this supposed to be your version of the Circle?” She asked him, knifing her fingers through her disheveled hair. “It’s rather dreary and lacking, if you ask me.”

“I see your wit is as resilient as you are.” Her captor said dryly, “I thought perhaps it would be kind to inform you that there’s been a change of plans.”

Hadiza said nothing, keeping her face smoothed of all expression. Her captor made a gesture, and two other corrupted templars joined him, one brandishing what looked to be a very sharp hunting knife.

Hadiza laughed.

“Torture? Doesn’t that go against all you believe in?” She asked. Her captor stepped close enough that she could see the corruption glowing in his eyes. She wondered what color they used to be.

And then without warning, he struck her across the face. Hadiza sprawled to the floor, her mouth flooded with the coppery taste of her own blood. She remembered Samson, and laughed through bloodied teeth. Not her finest moment.

“Maker! At last we’ve come to the pain!” She laughed, climbing to her feet, only to find the air forced out of her by a smite. She flattened onto the dirtied floor, winded and weighed down. Her captor slid his boot under her to turn her over.

“You think this is some sort of game, Inquisitor? Some sort of clever ruse to laugh your way out of? What you are about to experience is in no way a joke.”

Hadiza stared up at him, her expression almost serene.

“Unless you’ve got horns, claws, and seven eyes...it is very much a joke, ser.” She said.

She grimaced in pain as his boot pressed against her chest.

“To think, he committed worse crimes than what I’m about to, and yet what is his punishment? Getting to slide his cock into the Inquisitor every night. Being hailed as a hero all over as he does good deeds for the same people he would have destroyed. And what do we get? Ruin!”

Hadiza’s expression softened.

“So that’s what this is about.” She mumbled through her split lip. “Revenge.”

Her captor stared down at her, baleful, even as one of his companions handed him a vial filled with glowing red liquid, while the other knelt and took Hadiza’s head in his hands. Hadiza felt dread in her bones the like she had not felt in two years.

“This is justice.” Her captor said, and opened the vial.

* * *

Samson and Aja went over the plan for what seemed like the seventh time that evening. Aja snapped at him several times to pay attention, and Samson would merely grouse that he was aware of his job.

“I’m sure Hadiza is fine wherever she is. Can we focus on nailing these Carta bastards to the sky, first?” She said without so much as blinking at his foul mood.

“We’ve got to scout the place and see if we’re outnumbered.” Samson said casually. “If it turns out they’ve got more lying in wait for us, there’s no way the both of us can take them out.”

“What of Ariadne?” Edward asked from his easy recline in a chair that refused to match the rest of the decor. “Is this not her area of expertise? I should know, since I funded her tutalege.”

Both Aja and Samson exchanged a glance.

“Conflict of interest.” Aja said.

“She’s working for the Carta at present.” Samson said at the same time.

Edward raised a brow.

“I see.” He said in a voice that was dangerously quiet. “Hadiza set the Ghost loose and now anyone with enough coin can pick her up like a stray arrow and aim her at their enemies. Foolish decision, that one.”

Aja shrugged. “Well you’re the one who was using her to sabotage our family’s rivals, father. Are you angry now that the playing field is leveled, or because that’s one more daughter you can’t control?”

Before Edward could speak, Samson interrupted.

“Enough! The longer we spend arguing over past transgressions and decisions, the more time Hadiza spends in Maker knows what kind of trouble.”

Aja shook her head.

“Go to Starkhaven.” She said simply. Samson and Edward looked at her, incredulous.

“What?” Samson demanded. “I can’t go to Starkhaven, I’ve got a job to finish.”

“Fuck your job.” Aja said firmly. “Take my father and go find Hadiza. I can handle the fucking Carta. Trust me.”

Samson narrowed his eyes, glancing down at the sketch of the base. Aja said nothing, but there was something in her scarred face that revealed a cunning that made him shiver. Beneath the skin, the great beast of the Reaver prowled, eager to be set free. He wondered what she had in mind to deal with such numbers on her own.

“Aja,” for once Bann Trevelyan’s voice held none of the mockery in it, none of the derisive rudeness, and only the tone of a father’s concern, “don’t do this.”

Aja cracked her neck casually.

“Wasn’t asking your permission, father.” She said evenly. “I’m telling you and Samson to go and get my sister and I’ll handle the Carta. Trust me, I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

Samson had a feeling what she was planning would be messy.

“Andraste preserve me, Trevelyan, please remember that there’s innocent people in this town. Please.” He said. “If you do something stupid Hadiza will never let us hear the end of it.”

Aja merely smiled. Samson, knowing he’d not get much out of her by way of a promise--no Reaver could truly promise such a thing--opted to relent.

“Alright, Bann Trevelyan,” he said, “pack your shit. We’re heading to Starkhaven, and then we’re going to go and find my wife even if it kills me.”

Edward took a sip of something the Bent Bow clearly could not afford to serve.

“One can only hope.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Trish (saarebitch) for the tips and tricks and pointers on how to portray some of the stuff in this particular chapter. I hit a bit of a block at first and she asked one question and it was like "Boom!" instant flow again. Y'all should swing by her AO3 (saarebitch), and read her epic fic 'Exalted' which is possibly one of the most original and engaging pieces featuring elves in the DA fandom. So yes, go for it!

The first dose of red lyrium was not as maddening as she expected, but it was swift. Power swelled in her, and it was as if an ocean was rising inside of her, but the mana-suppression in the walls stopped her short. Hadiza drowned inside of herself, consumed with the potential energy of unformed spells.

Rowan came to her when the sun was directly over the chamber, casting them both in soft, diluted light. She sat; he stood.

“So,” she said, mindful of her split lip, which she gingerly tested with the tip of her tongue, tasting dried blood, “revenge and justice arrive to meet us here in this place. What do you want?”

Rowan said nothing, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched her, watched the residual glow of red lyrium leave her eyes. She wanted to cast, he could feel it, the lyrium compelled her to this, and yet she was calm, as if she had not ingested a single potion.

“Why him?” Rowan asked. “Why save him and hunt the rest of us down like dogs, Inquisitor? What made him worthy of saving and the rest of us worthy of damnation?”

Hadiza drew back, swallowing hard. It was not to say she had not heard these questions before, no. She had asked herself this a thousand times as she and her advisors bent over the maps in the war room, crossing out another encampment she had eliminated. And she had looked Samson in the face and made a promise she knew she’d be unable to keep.

“I…” She felt herself suddenly empty; empty of power, of worth, of  _ words _ . It was a question she could not answer because no answer she gave would be enough.

Rowan turned a slow circuit of the room.

“We couldn’t believe, when we heard the news.” Rowan said, contempt coloring his voice, “General Samson lives. Not only that, but he was seen arm in arm with the Inquisitor, making eyes at her like a lovesick child.”

Rowan snorted derisively.

“That’s not how it happened,” Hadiza said, “neither one of us intended for...any of this.”

Rowan turned so swiftly it made her flinch. He’d only struck her once, but it was enough to get his point across: within these walls, she was a prisoner, and her life was in his hands.

“Neither one of you intended it, no.” Rowan sneered, “I’m not so foolish as the rest to think you two were destined for one another. But what about after? Neither one of you thought of the rest of us. Of the sons and daughters who might have stood a chance if you’d shown us just a shred of the same compassion you showed him.”

Rowan spat, his contempt blooming violently, at odds with his slight frame, made bulkier by the protruding clusters of red lyrium along his back and shoulders. Hadiza looked away, guilt replacing the void within her. She had spoken of Samson facing those whom he had hurt, and he’d asked her how she would face her own victims.

Never did Hadiza think that the Red Templars themselves would be the ones she faced thusly.

“Rowan” she said softly, “I’m sorry. After the battle at the temple, the army was scattered, and I couldn’t risk any of you losing control and hurting those who could not defend themselves.”

Rowan’s rage welled in his eyes like a brutal magma, hot and impossibly copious. Hadiza felt it in the room, felt her own presence shrinking. The circumstances of her captivity had changed.

“And yet, here I am...sound of mind.” Rowan said. “How many others like me did you kill, Inquisitor?” He demanded. “How much blood is on your hands that you’ve never answered for?”

He was so calm. Hadiza felt fear in her, fear of the truth she had not realized she’d been avoiding. Samson had only asked her this once.

_ How many of my men did you slaughter just to get to me? _

How many, indeed. Enough that she felt unclean. It had been so easy to assume they were all monsters, so easy to assume none of them were like Samson.

That none of them were worth saving.

Rowan saw her expression, and stared at her coolly.

“Think on that while your fever rages, Inquisitor. Tomorrow, I will name the dead for you.”

And with that he left.

* * *

Breida stared at Aja intently, watching the woman consume bowl after bowl of vegetable soup, washing it all down with a pint of ale before dabbing at her mouth with a kerchief, the epitome of social grace and nobility. She blinked when Aja hid a belch behind her hand and muttered an apology.

“So.” She said, when she cleared her dishes and rested her hands on the bar counter. “This Carta situation. I’m going to need a few things. And I’m going to need you to be out of town for a few days.”

Breida’s eyes went wide.

“ _ What _ ?” She demanded, her voice a little too high, turning a few heads before the lull was overtaken by the resumed conversation. Aja picked at her teeth with her pinkie nail.

“Well, if you’re not here when I do what I plan to do, then you can claim plausible deniability.” She explained. Breida frowned.

“Just what do you plan to--” She began but Aja placed a finger to her own lips, indicating silence.

“Less you know, safer you’ll be. But rest assured, I’m handling it.” She slid out of her seat, fetching up her battle axe next to her. “Pack a bag and beat feet out of town. You have a relative you can stay with? An uncle or something?”

Breida hesitated.

“I have a cousin in Antioch a few hours’ ride from here.” She murmured. “Why?”

Aja placed a finger to her lips again and Breida nodded.

“You have anyone you can leave in charge while you’re away?” She asked. Breida nodded. Aja grinned, toothy and pleased.

“Good. Get the hell out of here, then.”

Breida hesitated, but Aja’s expression was hard and unblinking. There was something in her eyes that unnerved Breida, as if there were more to that silver gaze than a woman with a love for battle. Breida went to the back to inform the cook and her apprentice that she’d be visiting her cousin for a few days. There was some arguing, and Aja buffed her nails, listening as voices grew louder before she finally invited herself into the storage room where the cook, Breida, and her young apprentice Thierry were arguing.

“Breida you can’t leave now,” Thierry was saying, “I don’t...what if the Carta comes back?”

“Oh they won’t be coming back.” Aja said, amused. “But if you don’t let her leave, I assure you I can’t promise protection for this place and the three of you.”

“Breida who the hell is this?” The cook demanded, edging himself between Breida and Aja. He was a burly man, and Aja could see how his presence would be off-putting to patrons, with his scowling face and dark eyes. She raised her brows at him, expectant.

“She’s a friend.” Breida said haltingly, “I think. She’s helping us with the Carta.”

“For a generous price, too.” Aja said. “I assure you, no harm will come to her. But you two are going to ruin everything if you don’t grab your cocks and do your jobs!”

She was met with stunned silence. Waving her hand dismissively, she gestured to Breida.

“Hurry up and get going. I’ve much work to do, and you two have a tavern to run.”

She turned on her heel and left.

Later, when she’d assured Breida had left Markham, Aja went straight away to the warehouse district. The sketch she had been given was fairly faint, and the charred wood it had been made with was smudged, but she found the place. She wondered how long it would take to get inside, and wagered there would be at least two or three guards when she entered, and sucked her teeth in annoyance.

“I hate covert work.” She muttered and then went on the move.

The warehouse out of which the Carta operated was owned by a shipping company based in Orlais. Aja thought that perhaps she’d gotten the wrong building as she crouched behind a few dusty crates, watching the entrance. The guards came out, chattering away.

“Wren is something else,” said one, stretching as he rotated her right shoulder with a grunt, “asking us to double the guard as if one old templar could take us all on.”

“Wren’s always been a paranoid shitcan, you know this.” His companion said as they settled into position. “But I don’t think he’s entirely wrong. That’s the Inquisitor’s templar, I heard.”

“Nugshit! Where’d you hear that?” His companion demanded, incredulous. The other dwarf snorted.

“Bronson. You know he doesn’t hesitate to brag about meeting famous people. Said the guy had on red armor and everything. Cut off Thorim’s hand too. Clean like  _ this _ .” He made a motion, indicating a clean cut.

“No kidding,” his companion said, absorbing the information, “I thought they were just saying that to cover up the fact that they failed to secure the Bent Bow. I guess that’s why Wren gave them a pass. Still, that’s something, going toe to toe with the Red General himself.”

“Bronson said he was no joke, but Bronson’s not much of a fighter himself.”

They both laughed nastily. Aja shared an eyeroll with the darkness, and reached into her pack to withdraw a single vial. It was green and vivid, and smelled like hot metal. Aja hoped it would be enough, and stood up, rounding the crates to step into view. Instantly, the dwarven guards drew their weapons and she stopped short.

Aja held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Easy fellas, I’m here with a message for old Wren.”

Both dwarves narrowed their eyes.

“Never heard of ‘em.” Said the one with the bad shoulder. Aja kept smiling.

“That’s interesting. I could have sworn Bronson told me to come here…” She tapped her lips thoughtfully.

“Listen, this is private property.” Said the other dwarf, his crossbow trained on her. “Unless you’ve got some kind of death wish, you’d better turn tail and get outta here, or you’ll wish you did.”

Aja looked heavenward as if sharing a plaintive prayer with the Maker.

And then she struck.

It was a shame the dwarves were not expecting her to attack, else they might have been better prepared, but Aja cut them down, splitting their skulls before they could scarce cry out in alarm. They died, clutching their weapons. Aja searched their corpses, liberated their coin, and found a fingerbone on each of them, marked with etched rings blackened into the bone beneath the first digit. She pocketed them and dragged the bodies into the shadows, frowning at the blood smears. Well, there was not much to be done about that. Aja entered the warehouse, finding it quiet.

She should have known.

The first trap made no bones about how paranoid old Wren was, as a large spiked ball was released, swinging like a pendulum before the door. Aja dove forward into a roll, swearing under her breath as she adjusted her gambeson and rose into a crouch...just in time for Ariadne to place a crossbow to the back of her head.

Aja shut her eyes slowly, still tensed.

“You’ll be dead before you can go for your weapons.” Ariadne said bluntly, “I would advise you to stand up and comply.”

Aja let out a breathless chuckle.

“Father was right.” She muttered and rose to her feet, noting with slight surprise as the crossbow followed the movement.

“Turn around.” Ariadne ordered and Aja turned. Ariadne did not lower her crossbow.

“What are you doing here?” She whispered. “Are you trying to jeopardize my mission?”

Aja’s brows went up as she held up her hands.

“Your mission? Listen, Ghost, unless your mission involves blowing this place so high it rains down on the Black City itself then...yeah, yeah I’m fucking with your mission.”

Ariadne’s jaw tensed, the only sign that Aja had annoyed her in some way.

“You have no idea who or what you’re dealing with.” She said, “And I can’t let you do this.”

Aja smiled blandly. “Sorry, sis, but that’s what happens when you choose the wrong side: you lose.”

Ariadne’s brows knit in consternation, her silver eyes sharp. It was strange, that being the only reminder that they were sisters who shared a mother and naught else. Her features were more fine-boned, her skin more bronze than umber, and there was a hardness to her that Aja could not match, even with her own raider background. Ariadne had been molded from girlhood into what she was, now. It was second-nature, and this was all business to her.

“You need to leave.” She said. “I won’t warn you again.”

Aja stared down the sight of the crossbow.

“You’d better kill me now, Ari,” she said, “I’m sure those guards I killed were supposed to report to  _ someone  _ by now.”

Ariadne frowned.

“Maker damn you, Aja,” she hissed, “if I blow this mission, I’ll be ruined.”

“Then help me blow this place up, at least.” Aja countered. Ariadne hesitated, weighed and reweighed the options, her mind sharp and cold as she considered every contingency.

“What exactly is your mission anyway?” Aja asked. Ariadne never lowered her crossbow.

“Eliminate any threats to their operations in the area.” She said, “They have their own assassins, but they use me because a human assassin would be...unusual for the Carta.”

Aja nodded. “Makes sense. A human assassin throws people off, leads the guards to suspect a human organization. Got it. Clever of them. So...what say you slink off somewhere and I finish clearing this place out? You don’t get implicated, and I get to finally test out this explosive Hadiza cooked up.”

“Where’s Samson?” Ariadne asked coolly. Aja hesitated.

“Why do you need to know?” She asked narrowing her eyes. Ariadne’s face was neutral, her eyes betraying precious little in the way of human emotion. Only winter lurked there, and Aja shied from it.

“No reason.” Ariadne replied and fired the crossbow.

* * *

Raleigh Samson had reached the fading hinterlands of his patience in this unusually long journey. He cursed himself again and again for leaving the house under the presumption that he could find simple work for simple pay. He had planned, in his presumption, to perhaps rough up a few thugs, maybe a husband or two being a shit to his wife and kids, or maybe even a few bounty heads in the surrounding area. He had hoped to collect on these assignments, and upon his wife’s return, surprise her with all the little things their home had been lacking in since their money troubles began.

Starting with anything but millet balls for breakfast, Maker preserve him!

Instead, Raleigh Samson found himself riding hell-for-leather toward Starkhaven, chasing a trail that might have already gone cold, and hoping against hope that wherever Hadiza was, she was kicking its ass and riding toward home already.

This, he could use to keep him from strangling her father who was, in his way, the cause of this mess. Not truly, but Samson loathed the man enough to blame him anyway.

When they reached Starkhaven, Samson begrudgingly admitted to none but himself that while Bann Trevelyan was an insufferable, arrogant, manipulative ass...the man could keep up in the saddle. He rode with all the ease and expertise of one who was born to ride, and not once did he complain of soreness, and stopped only when the horses needed rest and watering, and little else. Bann Trevelyan was a proud, vain man--traits passed onto his eldest daughter--but he was no coward in the wilderness.

Still, Samson would have liked nothing more than to push the man off of a cliff.

They made good time, and stayed at a rather well-to-do inn and tavern at Bann Trevelyan’s insistence. When Samson attempted to pay for the rooms, Edward stopped him.

“We both know you can’t afford this.” He said almost smugly. “Let your betters handle such things.”

Samson knew he couldn’t afford to rent a room in such a fine establishment, and watched as Edward paid for their rooms and meals, wanting to reject the man’s feigned largesse out of pride. It was not as if he were on this mission for Hadiza’s sake. It was only because someone had smeared his name that he was involved at all. Samson grit his teeth, eating heartily and drinking less, thinking of what he would tell her when he saw her.

Later, when they retired to their rooms, Samson eased out of his armor with a satisfied groan. He bathed properly for the first time in weeks, in heated water, with actual soap, and even washed his hair. Thus, feeling much cleaner and clearer in his head, he dressed and went down to the inn’s bar, and found Edward in conversation with the man. Spotting him across the room, Edward raised his pint and gestured for Samson to come over.

“Come have a seat,” he said, “we were just discussing the whereabouts of the Inquisitor.”

Samson colored a little, more from anger than from embarrassment. Bann Trevelyan continued his conversation with the barkeep despite it all.

“He tells me he saw her, just this past fortnight. She was staying at a smaller place called the Sleepy Nug. Very quaint, but so...beneath her station.” Edward eyed Samson carefully. “I suppose one must change lifestyles when they marry down, though.”

Samson gritted his teeth again, so hard he felt one wiggle in its socket. He fought the urge to reach across and put his hands around Edward’s throat, and Edward, in his intuitive ability to sense the discomfort, smiled. He knew he was getting under Samson’s skin and relished it.

“In any case, she left not five days ago, heading toward Tantervale. So it is there we must go.”

Samson scowled, and then left the tavern, heading further into the city. He asked a few passerby about the location of the Sleepy Nug, and soon found it. It was quaint, and as Samson soon saw, so quintessentially Hadiza. It made him smile with satisfaction that he knew, without having to see much else, why she would have chosen this place.

Inside, the innkeeper was kind, and answered all his questions.

“Did she leave any word for me?” Samson asked. “A letter, a message of some sort?”

The innkeeper smiled. “Lovesick for your lady wife, are you? It’s good to see such things in a world going cold. But yes, she sent a letter when she left, said it was bound for Hercinia.”

Samson swore under his breath, and at the innkeeper’s dark look, apologized for his language.

“My apologies.” He said, “Thank you.”

He left, wishing he’d never left his damned house, but glad he did. That letter wouldn’t have let him know anything was amiss. When he returned to the inn, Edward was gone, retired to his room, and with nothing else left in the city for him, Samson retired as well.

Tomorrow, they would ride for Tantervale, and he hoped, put this entire mess to rest.


	10. Chapter 10

Hadiza felt the thirst like a distant push on her tongue. It was like a buzzing insect, insistent on its  intent to drive her mad. She felt anxious, almost agitated...all off of one vial. The swell and surge of power within her had ebbed unused due to the mana suppression. In that, Rowan had been intuitive. The madness of thirst would make her less focused, but not nearly as much as the inextricable chain of guilt he’d bound her with.

The question plagued her, night and day. She paced the circular chamber, paced in hopes of distancing herself from the thirst, finding it alway upon her when she stood still. She thought of those years in the Inquisition, of how she told Samson how much she missed it.

What was there to miss but the weight of power it gave her? There was naught else. She missed the power it gave her, the prestige, and the privilege to judge and sentence as she saw fit.

Had she judged wisely? Hadiza had named the dead for Samson, the civilians she’d found, swollen and split from the red lyrium harvested from their bodies. She had never forgiven him for that atrocity, and yet, he was her husband was he not?

With each day that limped past, the chain of guilt grew heavier. How foolish she had been, to weight the lives of the Wardens as her only true mistake. She had granted amnesty to her enemies provided they reformed and aided the Inquisition, but she had killed many before reaching that decision.

And it had been so easy. Once she understood how to destroy the templars, sweeping them off the map had been child’s play... _ sport _ .

Hadiza leaned against the wall, feeling dizzy with nausea, bile rising in her throat but refusing to come out. She saw it in her mind’s eye, a replay of battles already won and lost, of bodies twisted by red lyrium burning from her spells from within to without until finally...they crumpled, ugly and twisted, dead trophies to warn all what happened to those who crossed her.

Had she not earned a reputation as a soft-hearted healer? As a woman who saw the good in those she met, and when she did not, created it? Had she not done this?

She tormented herself, as Rowan knew she would, and he watched, as silent as the grave, as she judged herself and found herself wanting.

When next he came to visit her in prison, Hadiza was on her knees.

“You understand.” Rowan said; an answer to a question that remained unasked. Hadiza did not look up, trembling as she was, whether from the thirst or from her guilt, it was uncertain.

“What do you want?” She asked him. Rowan looked askance at the length of chain that bound her, could see how the  _ other  _ chain bound her as well.

“Give us Samson.” He said. “You granted him amnesty, and left the rest of us to rot without so much as a trial. Give him to us.”

Hadiza hazarded a slow glance upward, and her face was haggard with fatigue, but her silver eyes blazed like twin suns, defiant and angry.

“No.” She said the word like a spell, imbued with all the power she held within her. Rowan felt it, the pressure of mana against all borders of the lock he and his fellow templars had carefully constructed. She had grown powerful, the Inquisitor had, but she was still just a mage.

“If you do not give us Samson, we will judge you in his stead.” Rowan said. Hadiza sat back on her heels.

“Why him?” She asked, her voice hoarse. “Why not me?”

Rowan looked down at her, and Hadiza felt herself being scrutinized in a way most would deign uncomfortable.

“It is not something you would understand.” He said.

“You would be surprised how much I understand, Rowan.” Hadiza said, and the malice was faded from her voice, like the scab of a wound falling away to reveal oily scar tissue. Rowan considered her a moment. His face was limited in expression, but his eyes spoke volumes. Hadiza focused there, looking for the uncharted text that underscored his voice.

“When Samson came to us, we were skeptical.” Rowan said, his voice distant, remembering a time when he was whole and hale. “He had fallen from grace for aiding a mage. At least, that is what the stories said. But he came with his anger, and his passion, and his power. And he told us...he told us that his master would give us what the Chantry denied us: a true purpose.”

Hadiza said nothing, merely adjusted to look at him, her expression pensive.

“He was not particularly charismatic,” Rowan scoffed, “not to me anyway. But he spoke to a lot of the elder templars, the ones who were beyond their glory days well before they were ready to be. He offered them a chance at glory--said we would all sip from the cup of victory if we traded the blue for the red and followed him. I was on my way out of the Order soon, so of course I leapt at the opportunity. The Chantry was in chaos, mages were rebelling and the Divine was dead. It just seemed Samson was the only one willing to do  _ something _ ...even if we didn’t know exactly what that was.”

Hadiza’s brow furrowed. Rowan rubbed idly at the cluster of red lyrium crystals on his cheek.

“The first sip of the red was the hook, but the rest were line and sinker. You’ve tasted it, and you know what it feels like. Now imagine feeling that constantly, everyday, without end, and soon no amount of the stuff can quench the thirst. But Samson had so much of it, an a steady supply from the villagers we rounded up on his orders.”

Hadiza did not flinch in the face of this ugly truth, but her jaw shifted and tightened as she swallowed. It was no easier to hear the second time around.

“Samson cared about us.” Rowan said fiercely. “He made us all feel as if we were apart of something, as if we mattered to him more than we ever mattered to the Chantry...and he led us to victory. I marched proudly, wondering what we’d do when it was over and the path was clear for us to erect a new world order around this Elder One.”

Hadiza took a deep breath. She knew what would have happened, and until this very day, breathed not a single word of what she and Dorian had seen in that bright and terrible future.

“After the defeat in the Arbor Wilds, we were lost.” Rowan sounded angry. “We didn’t know what to do. Some of us were too far gone to control, and broke away from the ranks early. The rest of us banded together, trying to regroup or find a place to take shelter from the Inquisition. We thought for sure your army would be in hot pursuit.”

Hadiza swallowed again. She was so thirsty…

“But no army came for us, and that was okay. What was worse was that Samson never sent word, nor the Elder One. We waited for months...nothing. And more of us continued to lose our sanity to the lack of lyrium. Some of us we had to...put down lest they hurt themselves or us. Like wild dogs!”

He  _ was  _ angry, now, eyes blazing.

“And then suddenly, we hear rumors on the wind, from passerby and traders...the Red General is besotted with the Inquisitor. We refused to believe it, thinking it some scheme of the enemy to lure us out. And the rumors continued...and almost two years later we hear the Red General has  _ wed  _ the Inquisitor.”

Hadiza felt a pang of guilt at that. The Red Templars were not the only ones who took the news poorly, of that she was certain.

“We could not believe it.” Rowan said. “Our General, who had preached of the Inquisition’s weakness, of their deception of serving the greater good when they were just another tool of the Chantry...all of it was a lie. He was only ever out to save his own skin, and you were all too eager to let him.”

Hadiza absorbed the final words like a blow, shutting her eyes. Hearing it thus, it sounded exactly right. Samson, in his ardor, had never once sued for peace on behalf of his men. And she had  _ asked  _ him, in those early days when he was little more than her prisoner, if any of the men could be saved. She had wanted to save these men, but Samson had been reticent...and she took it as an admission that he thought the remainder of his army beyond saving.

Thus was her path set.

Rowan stared down at her, and she could see he was torn between spitting on her and striking her. He did neither, a mark of templar discipline.

“Give him to us, Inquisitor, that we might make him answer for his duplicity. He lied to us, ruined our lives, and left us to pick up the pieces while he galloped into the sunset with his lady, his knighthood nigh restored from all the good deeds he’s done in her bed.”

Hadiza tensed. She had heard enough slander regarding her private life.

“Samson is a good man,” she reasoned, “just as I’m sure many of you were.” She hesitated. “But if you wish to sue for amnesty, then kidnapping the Inquisitor and force-feeding her red lyrium is a way to insure you never get it.”

“I don’t want your amnesty!” Rowan snapped, his voice filled with a smite that pushed Hadiza into a smaller kneel.

“Only the Maker can grant me the peace I crave.” Rowan said, softer this time, the smite lifted, leaving Hadiza gulping air into starved lungs, “And only you can give me Samson.”

Hadiza caught her breath.

“And what will you do when you get him?” She asked. Rowan did not answer, merely turned smoothly on his heel and left. Hadiza watched him go, sick with dread. She already knew.

* * *

“We’ve been to every tavern and inn in this city, Samson.” Edward said. “She’s not here. She never was. It’s likely she would have sent word if she wanted to be found.”

Samson had been silent the entire week they’d spent combing Tantervale for Hadiza’s whereabouts. The tavern and innkeepers had no word for him, nor had any of them seen a woman matching Hadiza’s description. Samson knew Hadiza’s presence would stand out. The Rivaini avoided this city if nothing else. And these people had no cause to lie to him, and yet...he felt there was something amiss.

Edward Trevelyan was not helping.

“Someone must have seen her.” Samson said fiercely. “People don’t just disappear.”

Edward gave a droll shrug of his shoulders.

“She’s a mage, Samson. Perhaps she really  _ did  _ just disappear. If that’s the case, then she really learned nothing from her time as an abomination, did she?”

Samson whirled on Bann Trevelyan so fast the other man scarce had time to brace himself. He found himself shoved against a wall, Samson snarling in his face, eyes blazing.

“I’d advise you to watch yourself,  _ knight _ ,” Edward said, “your next actions could cost you.”

Samson didn’t move but then released Edward with a shove, spitting to his left in the Rivaini gesture of absolute disgust.

“Did you ever love your daughter at all?” He demanded. “Or was she just a mistake to you?”

Edward smiled arrogantly.

“I had intended for her to be married off to our kin in Tevinter, or mayhap to become a Chantry sister, but she wanted to be a templar. And now look at her...useful to none but a broken knight.”

Samson made to grab Edward again but maintained his discipline, gritting his teeth.

“If you hate her so much why are you here?” He asked.

“I don’t  _ hate  _ her, Samson,” Edward said, “just what she has become. Hadiza was a brilliant girl. Clever, resourceful, powerful. And yet, she has become--”

“Even more brilliant, resourceful, and powerful.” Samson interjected. “She’s the Inquisitor. She’s the most powerful woman in Thedas second only to the Divine. She led an army against me and bested me in combat. She did the best she could to protect her people, and saved Orlais and Ferelden both from a disastrous attack from the Qunari. What is it you feel if not hatred? Or do you envy her because she’s achieved more than you intended for her...more than you ever could on your own?”

The black rage contorting Edward’s face was answer enough for Samson. Both men were silent, with Edward’s dark eyes glittering with malice, and then he stalked away. Samson watched him go, lips twisted into a sneer.

“That’s right,” he said, “walk away like you always have instead of facing the truth. How a man like you could have sired Hadiza is a mystery. Maybe her being sent to the Circle was a good thing after all.”

Edward kept walking, and Samson spat again, his contempt unfeigned.

Later, at the inn, after a fruitless and infuriating search, Samson checked his coin purse. He didn’t have much left by way of silver or copper. His gold pieces had been spent on supplies in Starkhaven, and he cursed himself for having not learned how to make repairs to his own saddle as Hadiza insisted a while ago. She was handy with a needle, and he was...not so much handy as he was aggressive. As he ordered himself a pint, he thought fondly of her, as he so often did, and wondered not for the last time how a woman like that could have been a product of Edward Trevelyan’s loins at all. He wished he’d been more aggressive about not letting her go on this fool’s errand alone, and kept to his oath and his instincts that she would have needed him. And now she was gone, likely in danger beyond her ability to fend off, and he was sitting in an inn, hoping to find a solution at the bottom of his tankard.

“Long day, I take it?” The innkeeper asked when the crowd began to thin, and Samson had yet to move from his seat, nor had he ordered another drink.

“Long month.” Samson muttered darkly. The innkeeper nodded, wiping down the counter carefully. As inns went, this was perhaps the cleanest and most welcoming Samson had stayed in for some time.

“I suppose it has been. What’s got you so down, knight?” The innkeeper asked and Samson looked up sharply, making the man laugh. “Saw your armor and shield when you first came in with the older Rivaini fellow. Templar?”

Samson looked into his tankard. “Was.”

“Mm. Yeah, not much left of the old Order since that mess with the mages and the Inquisition.” The innkeeper said. “Shame the new Divine dissolved the old ways. Can’t say if we’re better off with or without the Circles or the Order, but we’ve changed for sure.”

Samson said nothing, wondering if it would be wise to tell this old man that he was largely responsible for the corruption and destruction of the Order. He wondered how he could have ever been proud of that. Hadiza had been right: heartlessness did not suit him. It never had. He could not have been the templar he was otherwise.

“Yes,” Samson said softly, “we all have. I just try to get by, helping people that have use for an old knight like me. In fact, I’m looking for someone, wondering if you might have seen her.”

The innkeeper’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

“She’s tall. Rivaini like the fellow I’m traveling with. She’s got hair the color of spilled ink and eyes like…” He smiled fondly, remembering, “...eyes like the edge of a blade in the sun. It’s really important that I find her.”

The innkeeper laughed. “A little bit in love with this lady, are you?”

Samson felt his cheeks grow warm.

“More than a little. Has she been through here in the last few weeks? Even just in passing?”

The innkeeper thought for a moment.

“Not here, no. I’ve not seen anyone like that in Tantervale.” He said, looking a bit disappointed. “From what you’ve described, she’d be hard to miss.” He frowned. “She’s not running from  _ you _ , is she?” Then he laughed.

Samson laughed. “Maker, I hope not. She was supposed to meet someone here who needed her help, but that was almost two weeks ago. The man I’m traveling with is her father. He’s looking for her too.”

The innkeeper’s brow went up.

“Now that you mention it, I’ve seen him before. He was talking to some other former templars earlier. Seemed important.”

Samson frowned. “Really? Where did he go?”

“Oh they went to...well, they looked like they were heading just outside of town.”

Samson dropped two silvers on the counter, thanked the innkeeper, and fled the place. It didn’t take him long to armor up, saddle his horse, and make for the city gates. He halted a guard on patrol, demanding if he’d seen a man matching Edward’s description.

“Yeah. He and a few of the templars headed down the road going west toward Hasmal, I believe.”

Samson didn’t wait for much else, spurring Rioardan into a full gallop out of the city and down the road.

* * *

Ariadne stared at Aja, and the bodies around them.

“You owe me.” Ariadne said, snatching another arrow from a dwarven corpse. Aja used her waterskin to wash bits of bone, hair, and gristle from her axe’s blade. The intricate filigree designs filled with blood. She sighed, placing the axe on her back, the Reaver awareness fading, the high from battle ebbing like a tide, leaving her weary and exhausted.

“How much?” She asked tiredly, laughing. Ariadne neither laughed nor smiled.

“It’s not a matter of monetary compensation,” she said, “as I am well off on my work that I can afford this loss. It’s my reputation that’s at stake. It’s why there must be no witnesses nor survivors from the Carta to tell the other what happened here.”

Aja glanced around. Already the room was rank with the coppery smell of fresh blood.

“Well I’d say you and I were very thorough on that account, wouldn’t you?” She laughed. Ariadne frowned but said nothing, moving stiffly to do one last sweep of the warehouse. They had worked tirelessly and in tandem to clean house. Ariadne knew she could have easily done such work on her own, but having Aja there had been an enormous help, and had reduced her chances of injury.

Each room told a story in which blood was the only sufficient ink. Bodies lay, broken and lacerated by the violent stigmata of variou blades. Some bristled with arrows, the shafts broken, the heads poisoned. Some lay awkwardly with split skulls, severed limbs, slit throats. Aja and Ariadne had worked with a brutal efficiency with a singular goal in mind: snuff out all life in the warehouse.

And they had been ruthlessly and enviably thorough. Even Ariadne could find no survivors. No one hid beneath the corpses, no one moved or breathed, nor would they ever again.

When she returned to the main room where a majority of the battle had taken place, Aja was finishing her task of pilfering gold and other valuables from the corpses. Ariadne watched her, and likened Aja to a carrion creature, only instead of the flesh of the dead, it was the valuables. She could not blame her, though, and so set to the task of lighting fires in each room.

Later, they watched from the rooftops of Markham’s only Chantry as the warehouse blazed four streets over. They shared a meat pie between them, thoughtful in the aftermath of their violence.

“So, what were you  _ really  _ doing for the Carta, anyway?” Aja asked. Ariadne shot her a dark look but Aja shrugged.

“It’s not as if any of them are alive to wag a finger at you. Come on, Ghost. Just this once. I wanna know.”

Ariadne pursed her lips, glancing back at the blazing warehouse, and listening to the wails of the townspeople as they worked to put out the fire.

“I was investigating a possible leak in their network. With the Inquisition gone, they’ve been making a slow but steady comeback to full strength. But because dwarves are still not looked at with much respect outside of merchant circles, they needed someone who could represent their interests without too much trouble. Since I am no longer the Inquisitor’s spymaster, I rented out my services to them in hopes of the contract becoming more...permanent.”

Aja whistled, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of cartilage.

“Well I supposed that’s out of the question what with you murdering and torching their entire Markham branch.” She laughed. “So what will you do, now?”

Ariadne was quiet, pensive.

“Perhaps I will offer my services to some other seedy crime syndicate in need for a highly skilled and specifically trained assassin.” She muttered. Aja rolled her eyes.

“Oh come on, it’s not like they were offering you work worthy of your talent. Hadiza had you on assignments way more fun than that, memory serve.” She said. Ariadne picked at the meat pie with a smile.

“True. Hadiza may not have the heart of a killer, but she certainly knew what to do with those who do.” She murmured. “Where  _ is  _ she, by the way? It’s rare to see Samson without her.”

Aja frowned. “That’s the problem: we don’t know.”

Ariadne’s brows went up. “But...was she not en route to Tantervale?”

Aja turned to look at her. The warmth between them faded, and for a moment tension coiled around both of them, lashing like the tail of some great, agitated beast.

“Samson informed me she was supposed to meet Bann Trevelyan,” Ariadne explained, “saying she received a letter from him to meet in Tantervale. But...Bann Trevelyan never went to Tantervale, nor did he draft that letter.”

Aja stared at Ariadne. “What do you know?” She asked.

“That Hadiza may be walking into a trap, if she hasn’t already.” Ariadne said curtly. “And that you should probably ride to Tantervale to catch up to Samson before he walks into one as well.”

Aja reached for Ariadne swiftly, but Ariadne was quicker, moving out of reach.

“You bitch!” Aja cried. “It was you! You wrote that letter! You used father’s seal!”

Ariadne stood at the edge of the building.

“I didn’t know what they intended, Aja, truly.” Ariadne said, “I was just told to retrieve the seal and draft the letter. All I know is that if they have taken her, it is likely somewhere near Tantervale or Hasmal.”

Aja rose, towering over Ariadne and fuming. The red ring around her irises expanded as her rage mounted. Ariadne’s hands spread, but Aja knew better than to think the other woman unarmed.

“Who hired you?” Aja demanded.

Ariadne dipped her head, silver eyes glittering.

“Samson never was good at cleaning up his own messes.” She said simply and Aja charged her. Ariadne loosed her powder and blurred out of sight. Aja swore loudly and profusely, and jumped down, landing with a crunch on a lower ledge, before dropping to the streets below. She ran, heading toward the Bent Bow.

Breida was outside when she saw Aja rounding the corner.

“Oh thank the Maker!” Breida breathed. “What happened?”

Aja slid to a halt. “Your problem’s been handled, I have to leave. My sister and my brother-in-law are in grave danger.”

Breida’s eyes went wide. “What? What do you me--”

Aja didn’t let her finish, she merely ran, saddled Bucephalus, and tore hell-for-leather out of town.

* * *

“Killing Samson won’t bring you peace.” Hadiza argued when Rowan visited her again. “Killing anyone won’t bring you anything but more emptiness. Vengeance solves  _ nothing _ .”

Rowan shrugged.

“We’ll see how you feel when your husband is dead and you must mourn him.” He said. “Samson deserves to suffer and more for what he’s done. If I and my brothers must burn day and night from this curse he brought upon us, then so too must he.”

Hadiza let out a shout of frustration.

“This won’t solve  _ anything _ !” She cried. “The path to peace lies only in moving forward. If you kill him, what message does that send?”

“Justice, for one.” Rowan said calmly, watching her pace. “Are you thirsty, Inquisitor?”

Hadiza glared at him sharply but said nothing. She was. She’d been permitted an abundance of cool, fresh water. They’d seen to it that the water was chilled, but the thirst they’d put in her was too deep to be reached by mere water or ale. She craved, in the deepest part of herself, the damning fire of red lyrium and the power it brought her.

“When you granted him peace, was it only because you loved him?” Rowan asked. Hadiza came up short, wincing.

“I didn’t love him when I spared him, Rowan. Whatever you’ve heard likely isn’t the truth of what happened. But nothing I say will convince you to do aught but continue your current course.” She said. Rowan snorted.

“So what? He told you his sob story about how his life was so hard in Kirkwall after he’d been booted and you felt pity for him?”

Hadiza shook her head.

“Heartlessness never suited him.” She said. “It shouldn’t suit  _ any  _ templar, dishonored or otherwise. Why become a protector otherwise? What he did in the name of rage and heartbreak is understandable, but I never granted him amnesty from it. His death would not have brought us anything useful: the lives of those he ruined.”

Rowan stared at her.

“Yet you spit in the faces of his living victims by openly walking arm in arm with him; marrying him.”

Hadiza spread her hand in a gesture of surrender.

“I never intended to love him, Rowan. That was the furthest thing from my mind at the time. I thought, perhaps, if Samson could change his life on his own, see that falling from the grace of the Order was not the end of a life, but a chance to start anew...mayhap those who walked behind him would follow. But none of you ever came forward, did you? None of you sent word or requested an audience. You lay in the shadows, building your hatred until it was all you knew.”

Rowan’s eyes flashed. “Would you have granted us an audience, Inquisitor? You were so quick to slaughter us, would you have listened to us if we begged your forgiveness?”

Hadiza lifted her chin.

“Begged my forgiveness? No. Pleaded for a chance to earn your redemption? Yes.” She said. “I was wrong to never consider that not all of you were lost to the madness the red lyrium induces.” She rubbed her temple. “And I understand a little of what that madness entails. But this? What you intend to do with Samson is...it means nothing. It will earn you nothing. When he is dead and I am mourning him, what then will you do? You think anyone in Thedas will welcome you just because you killed the Red General when the Inquisitor would not?”

Rowan stared at her still, studying her face, but like a disturbed candle flame, there was something else in his expression, something that was putting hairline cracks in his brave front. Hadiza’s expression softened.

“I’m sorry, Rowan.” She whispered. “Maker, I know I should have done more for you and your brothers. Everything was chaos during that time, but if I could do it for the Grey Wardens, then I should have been able to do it for you. And it was my own fault for not pushing my people to find you and others like you.”

Rowan seemed hurt by her apology, confused, and she saw for the first time how young he must have been before the red lyrium crystallized and preserved his face. He looked away.

“Your apology is sincere, Inquisitor, of that I have no doubt.” He said. “But it comes too little too late. We have no families waiting for us any longer, and those of us who do can never return, being the deformed monstrosities you see before you. But Samson is the one who must answer for this. He led us, promising victory and purpose, and he leapt into your arms to save himself, thinking nothing of the same brothers and sisters he claimed to support.”

Hadiza bowed her head.

“I understand.” She said, wishing she didn’t. “But killing him will bring you nothing but misery.”

“I think not.” Rowan said. “Perhaps you will be miserable, Inquisitor. But I will succumb to my corruption gladly knowing that Samson did not escape the fate he doomed the rest of the templars to face.”

Hadiza shut her eyes against the sight of the circular chamber, against the sight of Rowan who looked at once resigned to and fearful of his decision. He left slower, stopping at the door.

“Would you have felt the same about any of us had we been in his position?” He asked and Hadiza winced at the sting of the words. Someone had asked her something similar a long time ago. Was Samson truly that special, or would any templar do?

She cringed inwardly in abject horror when she remembered the one who had asked her had been the pride demon that possessed her nearly to years past.

“I’m no fortune-teller,” Hadiza said, “and I can’t say. All I know is that what happened has happened and there’s no changing it. But you and I both have a chance to ensure anything going forward does not become a memory filled with regret.”

Rowan did not deign to reply, and left her there. She worried, wondering if Samson would ever find her, and hoping, for his sake, that he did not.


	11. Chapter 11

For the greater part of his life, Samson had never considered himself particularly clever. He knew a dozen ways to hide a mage from a templar on the hunt, knew a few tricks to win at a game of diamondback and wicked grace, and could possibly pick apart an enemy combatant in a few moves based on experience alone, but he was not a clever man. Samson considered himself intuitive, however, and he knew a con when he saw one. As he pursued the still-hot trail of Bann Trevelyan and his templar companions, he wondered what part of the puzzle he was missing.

The letter had arrived shortly after the winter season began to thaw into spring, yes. Samson went over the details during his ride. He’d read the letter himself. It sounded just like Edward, and the seal was genuine, confirmed by Edward himself as he was surprised to learn someone had stolen it.

Samson thought long and hard. Something was missing. Edward was clearly up to something, but he could not fathom what it was. And almost as soon as he thought it, he came upon them, bringing Riordan up short and riding off the road into the trees as he tethered his charger and dismounted. Edward and his companions stood near the Minanter’s edge, their horses drinking wearily from the cool water. As Samson crept closer, he caught snatches of conversation.

“I’m tired of waiting,” Edward said irritably, “where is she?”

“Rowan’s likely bringing her soon. Just be patient. Do you have what he asked for?” One of the templars demanded, and Samson’s stomach went into freefall when he saw them. They were Red Templars, of that there could be no doubt. Their deformity was less pronounced, but Samson could hear the brackish and discordant song of red lyrium--knew its dissonant voice anywhere.

He had far more dreams about the red than he would ever admit, and too many of them were  _ pleasant _ .

He waited, knowing if he moved too soon, he would lose his only lead.

“Yes, yes.” Said the Bann irritably, “In town, possibly drunk by now. He believes his search to be lost. She is unharmed, I take it?”

The Red Templars did not answer and Samson wanted to lunge from the bushes and shake them until they answered. Still, he began to see the pattern forming. Bann Trevelyan had orchestrated this, which was enough to knock the wind from his sails, but not the fire from his rage.

But why had he done this?

He almost revealed himself when hoofbeats sounded, and another Red Templar arrived. He was smaller than Samson expected, even with his red lyrium augmentations. His face still retained some semblance of humanity, but clusters of red lyrium crystal grew from his face like some eerie, garish stubble. Samson watched as the other Red Templars went and hauled Hadiza off of her own horse. She stumbled, looking wan and sickly. She was awake, blinking against the brightness of the fading day. She swayed, her legs unsteady, her gaze uncertain. When she saw her father, the color drained from her face, turning it ashen.

“Daddy?” She asked, and her voice was small, hoarse, barely a croak. Samson’s hand went to his sword. He could kill everyone there, take Hadiza, and be off before the sun vanished beneath the trees. He wanted to kill everyone there, the Bann included.

“I’m here, my girl.” Edward said sweetly.

“You came for me?” She asked, disbelieving, but Samson knew hope when he heard it, and his heart bled for her, knowing that the Bann would gleefully snuff it out within moments.

The templars released Hadiza to stand on her own at her insistence. Samson held off a little longer, wondering what she was about.

“Rowan,” she said to the younger templar, the one who’d brought her, “you don’t have to do this. There’s no coming back from it once it’s done, and the cycle of violence will continue.”

Samson narrowed his eyes.

“What else is there for us?” Rowan asked her. “Samson damned us to this fate and left us behind to save himself. No other purpose exists for us now.”

Hadiza stood as proud as she could for as weak as she had become. Her gauntlet was lifeless at her side, and Samson could feel the void where she stood. They were still actively suppressing her magic. Where the magic should have ebbed and flowed around her, it was virtually nonexistent.

“Samson once thought the same, you know.” She said, “And he turned his life around completely.” Samson beamed with pride from his hiding place. He didn’t like hiding at a moment like this, when Hadiza was vulnerable and at a disadvantage, but he knew his presence would disrupt whatever she was doing.

“And who would welcome us?” Rowan demanded. “You? As kind as you are, Inquisitor, there is no room in your heart for all of us. We would be run out of town and killed.”

“He has a point, Hadiza.” Edward said laconically. “Now come along and leave them to their vengeance.”

Hadiza whirled on her father.

“I’d hate to hear you were apart of this.” She said, and Samson waited, his hand tense on the pommel of his blade. Edward waved his hand dismissively.

“They wanted Samson, and I wanted him gone. It worked out. And look, he traveled with me and yet he didn’t come for you.”

Samson gritted his teeth against a string of swears. His pride chafed, but his good sense told him not to move. Hadiza frowned. He could see her considering it. There was her father, come to rescue her from a situation  _ he  _ created; and where was her husband? The man who swore an oath to protect her at all costs? Hiding in the bushes like some scared child.

“Likely because he has not discovered your role in this yet.” She said finally and turned to Rowan.

“I can help you, and no one needs to suffer.”

“Stop defending him.” Rowan snapped. “If you didn’t love him you would have killed him.”

Samson felt his blood run cold at the thought. He thought about those first nascent moments when he looked upon Hadiza in full seated on her throne. It had been something, to see her in the broken light of the stained glass windows. Andraste’s effigy burned at her back, and she glowed, a dark star whose light had burned him. But he never forgot the look on her face, the brief, fleeting flash of sorrow when he’d finally surrendered, bowed by the weight of his own guilt and shame.

She had not loved him then, but she had felt moved by the sorry sight of him.

But what of the others? Had she not been moved by what had been done to them?

_ Those we can save, we will save. _

No, his Hadiza had tried. She had tried her damndest to save whom she could.

Samson shut his eyes, inhaled, and emerged from his hiding place.

“You want me, Rowan.” He said, spreading his hands. “Here I am.”

* * *

Aja knew from questioning that her father and Samson had already made their way to Tantervale. She paced the road, swearing. She could go after them, free them from the trap, and possibly get one good punch in her father’s face for this mess. Or, she could wait, and hope that Hadiza had devised one of her nugbrained schemes to get out of whatever mess she and Samson were in.

Aja reined Bucephalus in, and he snorted in protest, wanting nothing more than to be given his lead and thunder down the road.

The prospect of punching her father in the face was too strong to ignore, and she’d not pass up a chance to punish him for this transgression.

“Bucephalus!” She cried, and loosened the reins. The Friesian took off at a full gallop, hooves thundering along the road as Aja made to pick up whatever trail was left. She didn’t have to ride long. She found them by the river when she saw the tracks leading off of the road. It was a tense standoff, swords drawn, everyone glowering, and Aja dismounted, tethering Bucephalus before she joined the fray.

“Quite a mess you’ve made, Bann Trevelyan.” Aja said. “Glad to see it’s going so well.”

Hadiza’s eyes went wide with surprise. The young templar pointed his sword in her direction, but Aja merely looked amused.

“Who are you?” He demanded. Aja turned her hands out with a wry smile.

“Someone who has split skulls bigger than you, boy, and makes no bargains for peace as my sister does.” She replied. “Lower your weapon.”

“Aja, please.” Hadiza said and Aja ignored her, keeping her eyes on Rowan.

“You want vengeance on Samson?” Aja demanded. “Then fight Hadiza for him.”

“What?!” Samson, Hadiza, and Edward shouted at once. Aja shrugged.

“It’s clear that they want both the Inquisitor and Samson...but they want Samson more. Is that right?”

Rowan hesitated, but he had come too far to back down now.

“Samson’s head and no less than that.” He said. Hadiza looked pained.

“Rowan.” She pleaded. “Don’t do this.”

Rowan pointed his sword at her. “Don’t dictate to me, Inquisitor.” He jerked his head, made awkward by his deformity, revealing the crystals that clustered around his neck like some macabre necklace or collar. Samson swallowed hard at the sight; whether from thirst or from his own guilt, he could not be sure.

“Choose your weapon.” Rowan said and Hadiza hesitated. “Now!” She winced, but then took her partisan. The templars released their suppression and Samson saw Hadiza’s visible gasp as she trembled from the rush of her own power. The lyrium-veined gauntlet that served as her left arm came to life, jerking and twitching as she regain control of the artificial limb. The fingers wiggled, twisted, bent, and curled, and the hand rotated on its ball-joint before Hadiza assumed complete control, precise and clean. She shut her eyes, and when she opened them, they were clearer than they had been these weeks past. She stared at Rowan, her face suffused with an inarticulate sorrow, mingled with a terrible compassion.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered before Rowan attacked. For all Samson had hoped that it would not come to this, for all that he hoped Hadiza’s compassion and bid for peace would work, he knew too well how thoroughly vengeance could blind, and how deep the well of madness of red lyrium ran. He had warned each and every one of his men not to let it control them, not to let themselves be dictated to by the lyrium. He had called upon them to use all they had of their rigid templar discipline and faith to maintain control and sound minds. Some--many--had failed to fulfill this, but many more had done well enough to retain their minds, but Maker it was hard.

Even he had been tempted to succumb at times.

Hadiza fought valiantly, but was weakened from captivity and it showed. Her stances were not as strong, and instead of pushing back, she ducked and dodged blows, coming up winded. When she cast a static cage, Rowan dispelled it as if it were mere child’s play. The red lyrium fueled him, making him relentless, and Samson knew that he would never stop. He had trained him that way.

Hadiza immolated Rowan, slowing him, and Samson could see it pained her to do it. He wondered if she’d felt that way about all the men she’d killed, and remembered the accusation Rowan had thrown earlier.

Rowan suppressed her mana again, rendering her left arm useless. The partisan was too heavy for her to wield one handed so she dropped it. Aja tensed, wondering how Hadiza would fight with no blade and no magic.

Hadiza ducked beneath Rowan’s swinging sword, stepping close behind him so that she was too close for him to reach, she brought her living arm around his neck, wincing as the red lyrium crystals bit into her gloved hand. And slowly, she tightened her grip, her mana returning. There was a sound like crumbling stone as her rock armor generated, turning her skin to living stone, and augmenting her strength. Her eyes glowed the vivid blue of lyrium, and she still wore that look of sorrow.

“Don’t do this, Rowan.” She murmured as he struggled against her, sword dropping from his nerveless fingers. “Don’t do this.”

She kept saying it, hoping he would see reason, but instead, he spat.

“He doesn’t deserve to live.” He ground out. “And neither do you.”

Hadiza shut her eyes. There was a sound like glass cracking and Aja and Samson’s eyes went wide with shock as ice formed all over Rowan’s head and neck. Hadiza froze him thoroughly, until she could no longer hear him gasping.

And then she squeezed, shattering his throat.

Rowan’s frozen head tumbled to the ground at her feet, crystallized in ice, and his body twitched and flopped to the ground as she released it. Hadiza stood in silence, the violence of the gruesome act still within her. Samson did not need to be close to see that she was trembling. When he approached her she whirled on him, bringing him up short. Her eyes blazed, and hr rock armor did not fade. She looked at the remaining templars.

“I offered him a way out, and he refused. This was the only other course of action I could take.” She said, willing the tremor out of her voice. “You have a chance to take better steps forward than he did and not let vengeance consume you. Leave off this mission and I will not pursue.”

That was the only warning they were given, and they hesitated, edging away before fleeing further into the woods. Aja crossed her arms.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” She said but Hadiza didn’t answer her. She was looking at Rowan’s remains. Edward looked on with a sort of grim satisfaction. Samson reached for Hadiza but she stepped away from him.

“Don’t touch me.” She said sharply and he took his hands away, his gaze questioning. “Nobody touch me.”

“Hadiza.” Edward said. “I hope you learned a valuable lesson here today.”

Hadiza glanced up, and without thinking, flung a focus spell at her father. It struck him full in the chest, knocking the wind from him as he sprawled on the ground, clutching his chest and gasping. Hadiza stared down at him, and for once, Samson saw none of that terrible compassion in her, only a seething  _ thing  _ brewing in her that he knew all too well: hatred.

“Don’t ever contact me again.” She said. “Don’t think about me. Don’t mention me. Don’t write about me. I’m disowning you and your accursed name.”

Edward stared up at her, for once in his life, fearful of his too-powerful daughter. Then, he got to his feet.

“Say anything, Trevelyan,” Samson warned, “and Aja inherits everything today.”

Edward, for once, wisely kept his mouth shut.

Hadiza was kneeling over Rowan’s body, and Aja roughly took her father back to his horse to escort him all the way to Ostwick. Samson joined Hadiza as they were left alone in the clearing. She ran her fingertips over Rowan’s back, over the templar insignia. Samson felt pangs of guilt twisting in his gut. It amazed him how guilt and the corruption felt the same in his stomach.

“When you came to me,” Hadiza said, “long ago...when I asked you for help…”

Samson looked up sharply, dread making him sweat.

“Did you help me because you wanted to save yourself?” She asked. Samson hesitated.

“What do you mean?” He asked. He knew what she meant.

“Rowan said you were only eager to be with me because you knew you’d be spared.” Hadiza said. “And at the time, I thought that couldn’t be true because I spared you long before I loved you. But it occurred to me: you never once brought up the subject of granting your men amnesty.”

Samson looked away. “It was too much to hope that you would, Hadiza. And there were so few of them with their wits left, and you were hellbent on finding Corypheus. I kept my mouth shut.”

“Because as long as your ass was saved it was fine, right?” She demanded. “As long as you survived, even if it was just a bit longer than the corruption allowed, you were fine with the rest of the Order going down in actual flames?”

Samson felt her words sting his heart like salt in an open wound.

“Those were my men, Hadiza!” He snapped at her, “And you never even thought to seek them out yourself, either! Don’t put this all on me. I knew my head was valuable on my shoulders, not off it. So yes, I surrendered to live a little longer, even if it was clapped in chains.”

Hadiza shook her head. “You used my compassion to save your own life!”

“Yes!” Samson admitted. “I wasn’t ready to die! I wasn’t at the Well of Sorrows, and I wasn’t when you judged me. I was  _ afraid _ , Hadiza. I was afraid that you’d listen to Cullen and send my corpse to Kirkwall. So I surrendered. I told you everything I knew. I agreed to help you because you were beautiful, and you treated me like a human being even though I had sworn to destroy you.”

Samson watched as Hadiza turned her back to him, the realization dawning on both of them.

“So what happened?” She asked. “What changed?”

“I did.” Samson said. “I changed. And it was mostly because of you. I thought if I acted the part, played nice, maybe I’d get a better prison cell, better food, maybe even cleaner clothes. And then...you told me I was a good man despite everything and...I don’t know. I felt terrible about lying to you. Especially when you truly believed in me.”

Hadiza covered her face with her hands.

“So how much of what you felt was a farce, then?” She turned to him. “Why didn’t you run away when you had your freedom?”

Samson laughed. “Isn’t it obvious, girl?”

Hadiza stared at him, unsure.

“You were too good for me then,” Samson told her, “and everyday I still think that. And what we did was selfish. But I didn’t care. I knew and I didn’t care because...I was tired of being unhappy, Hadiza. I was tired of everything and everyone good being taken from me.”

Hadiza shut her eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“So what do I do?” She asked. “I don’t...there could be more of them. How do we fix this?”

Samson went to her, took her hand in his.

“Together.” He said. “And sometimes, you can’t fix things, and that’s okay too, Hadiza. You learn to live with the burdens.”

Hadiza wanted to tell him that it wasn’t their fault, but she knew it was. Had she not made the choice she did, had he not made the choice he did, they would not be together now. It was hard to fathom life without him by her side now that he was there, and despite everything, she loved him.

But there was something torn between them that would take time to mend.

“So what of Ariadne’s role in all of this?” Samson asked.

“She is motivated by pragmatism, not malice.” Hadiza said, “But I will need to speak with her in person to be sure.” She looked down. “We should give him a proper burial.”

Agreeing, Samson aided her, digging a grave further back from the river’s edge. Hadiza moved the body with practiced care, and was surprised when something fell out of the pack at Rowan’s belt. It was small, but very ornate, and Hadiza gasped when she picked it up.

“What’s that?” Samson asked, brow furrowing. Then his eyes went wide. “Is that…?”

“My phylactery.” Hadiza answered. “This must be how they found me so quickly.”

“Mighty fancy for a phylactery. You Ostians are something else with the opulence.” Samson brushed his fingers over it. The top was decorated with a golden disk upon which Andraste’s face was wreathed in flame, crown and all. The center was egg-shaped glass container filled with what could only be Hadiza’s blood. It glowed brightly, indicating Hadiza was very close. The phylactery was no bigger than Hadiza’s hand.

“I never thought about it after fleeing the Circle.” She murmured, staring at it in rapt fascination. “I just assumed they were destroyed when the rebellions swept the land.”

She took the glass container in her false hand and crushed it easily. Her blood stained the metal of her gauntlet, shards of glass glittering in the moonlight. She dropped the phylactery only for Samson to pick it up.

“This is solid gold, princess. Could be worth something.” He muttered. Hadiza sighed, watching him pocket the broken phylactery. Together, they buried Rowan, and Hadiza said a prayer, hoping his spirit found the peace in death that had eluded him in life. Samson felt a shiver of fear go through him looking at the fresh, unmarked grave. He felt as if he were staring into his own future, and was all too eager for them to turn away and ride, homeward bound.

* * *

Summer came to Hercinia, and Hadiza marveled over the vibrancy of her garden. It was fragrant with herbs and other plants, and from within the house, she could smell all manner of cooking. The broken phylactery had fetched a high price in town, and they had enough coin to restock their pantry, and to even afford a few of the minor luxuries Hadiza had missed, such as starlight oil, which was a special oil infused with tiny flecks of gold, which glittered on her skin when she applied it just after bathing. For Samson, he was able to mend his armor, and have his saddle repaired with a new girth belt. They also spent quite a bit of coin when Rivaini traders came to town, bearing the teardrop peppers and  _ ogbono  _ seeds that Hadiza used to cook with. And to her delight, she was able to get a shipment of honey from House Faye’s apiary.

All was well enough again.

Every so often, the couriers would come, bearing letters of distress and duress from those in need of help, and Samson and Hadiza would answer together or not at all. They traveled the length and breadth of the Free Marches, clear to the Imperium border, and all the way to the Amaranthine Ocean. Samson felt good, being hailed as a hero, and Hadiza felt even better, more like herself.

But they never forgot Rowan, or the templars Hadiza had spared. Still, they wondered what became of the ones who still managed to escape corruption; wondered if they were able to turn their lives around as Samson had done.

They found out by way of courier. The letter came when both Samson and Hadiza were settling down to dinner one evening. Samson collected the letter suspiciously, unraveling the cord to look it over. He read it aloud to Hadiza, who frowned.

“Does it say where they are?” She asked, looking over the letter. The handwriting was shaky, as if whomever had written it trembled. She read it again and again.

> _ Inquisitor, _
> 
> _ None of us will ever forget for however long we have left to live, what you did for us that day. We know you meant well, and we know Rowan did too. He was angry--we all were--when we thought Samson had forgotten us. But how could he have forgotten us when it was his words and training that ensured we survived the red lyrium this long? Somewhere on the path, Rowan must have forgotten that we owe Samson our survival. Where would we have been had he not recruited us? Rotting away, waiting for the sky to fall down on our heads, or for the mind-rot to take us completely. _
> 
> _ The Red General has his faults, we all do, but he cared about us. We know he did. Still, we hadn’t expected you to spare us that day, and we’ve taken your words to heart. We can’t show our monstrous faces in any town or village, but we’ve found ways to help, found ways to give what remains of our lives meaning again. _
> 
> _ Maybe when we finally go, we can go knowing we left this world better than we found it, and better than we made it, even if it’s small. _
> 
> _ Thank you, Inquisitor, for your kindness and courage, and for your incredible strength in the face of a challenge with no real winning solution. We won’t let you down. _

Hadiza smiled. It was enough to ease the burden of her guilt just a little.

“Good news, huh?” Samson asked, sitting beside her, an arm around her shoulder. Hadiza leaned her head against his shoulder, smiling to herself.

It was enough for a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin. Bye.


End file.
